


Almost Fine

by Schwoozie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Cunnilingus, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Family, Fingerfucking, Hand Jobs, Masturbation, Mother-Son Relationship, Past Abuse, Porn with Feelings, Recovery, Slow Burn, Step-siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-19 21:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 159,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3624765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the life she's had, Daryl thinks it will be good for his ma—living on this farm, married to Mr. Hershel Greene. Still doesn't mean Daryl's comfortable with the thought of getting a new father; not with how the old one worked out.</p><p>A new sister, though. That new sister is its own problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mama’s Boy, Daddy’s Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for mentions of past abuse.
> 
> Also, FYI: Beth is sixteen, almost seventeen in this fic. Sexual mentions won't happen for a few chapters, but just a heads up if this is a squick for anyone.

Daryl knows Hershel Greene thinks his ma doesn't smoke, and she somehow believes that even with them about to live together she can keep it that way. It's why she's sat beside Daryl in his truck, jaw going a mile a minute on her Nicorette and filling the cabin with the sickly smell of burnt cinnamon. Daryl wouldn't usually mind it so much—he's slept in fucking beds that smell worse—but today it won't stop grating on his nerves. His heart's started to pound to the beat of her smacks, the drumline her fingers take up on the dash when she parks the gum against her teeth, like if she pauses for a moment her body will explode. Even with the Top 40 station playing quietly from the speakers, he hears it clear as day.

The bubblegum pop irks him almost as much as his ma's chewing does, but it's not like he can change it; it's what they always play, when his ma's in the car. “Have to know what the kids are listening to these days,” she says, like she's writing a fucking research paper. Never mind she hasn't written more than a shopping list since before Daryl was born. It was something she talked about, writing again, back when she first decided to get sober; but it's been a year and aside from the small purple notebook she picked up at the dollar store he hasn't seen hide nor tail of it.

So he tries to ignore her. Tries not to let the way she's practically thrumming in her seat distract him and run them off the thin winding road. Keeps his chin up, eyes straight ahead, hands the level of a lady's tits, just like Merle taught him.

He almost wishes Merle were with them now, as he looks up at the approaching farmhouse; can hear his brother filling this peculiar ecstatic silence with sneers about the tight-assedness of the place, its fresh-painted walls and stately shingled roof, looks like the well-meaning cotter's home that gets burned down in fairytales.

Daryl snorts quietly at that. He'd be the big bad wolf, wouldn't he, if that story were this one; come to blow the homestead down.

The house does belong in a fairytale, with its wraparound porch, a patch of yellow flowers growing by the steps. But to Daryl it also looks menacing, dominating the arable landscape and casting a shadow on the car as it rolls to a stop.

He finally looks at his ma and finds her, as usual, oblivious to his sour mood. She's gazing up at the house like it really is the palace in a fairytale, Daryl's shitty truck her golden chariot, this Hershel Greene her dashing prince.

Hershel Greene and his ma have been seeing each other for a year and they've been engaged a few weeks, but Daryl still hasn't met the man. It isn't like his ma is hiding him; she told Daryl, after all, when he asked why she was smiling the first night after AA, that she'd met the man of her dreams. For months he’s closed his ears and stared into his corn puffs as she’s prattled on about the flowers Hershel buys her or the horse he let her ride or his charming fucking kids (Daryl nearly asked her once if she'd rather he moved out of state so she could adopt them instead; it was sort of a moot point when she got engaged the next day). “The dirty details,” she calls these conversations. Not that they'd ever done it, of course, oh no; this Hershel Greene is a _gentleman._ She doesn't say “not like your father”—old Will Dixon, got her knocked up on their first date, didn't even make the delivery room—but Daryl hears it plain as day.

Part of him wants to believe it. Wants to see someone other than himself take the hand covered in cigarette burns and what the police would've called “defensive wounds” if she'd ever gone to the station. Wants to believe the way her smile isn't broken anymore.

But honestly, he doesn't plan to make introductions any sooner than he has to. Not to Hershel Greene, and not to his kids. He's here to help his ma and get the hell out.

She's looking at him now, he realizes, and he pretends to ignore it; stares fiercely out the window at an old trampoline. Unlike the ones in his neighborhood, it looks well maintained, maybe even safe to play on without a tetanus shot. His breath sounds loud in the silence of the car and he startles a little when his ma says his name.

“What?” he asks, gentling what would have been a snap into a grumble.

She doesn't put her hand on him like another mother might; just waits for him to turn around. Her eyes are tired, as they always are, with heavy bags beneath from her insomnia; her skin lined from fifty years of chain-smoking and binge-drinking. But there's a smile in her gaze, now, that he'd never seen before this year. The beginning of happiness.

It makes something low in his gut—something like jealousy, something like unease—unsettle and roll and land in a smoldering pile at her feet.

“You ok with carrying all those boxes yourself? We can wait for Hershel—“

“Nah, I got it,” Daryl says.

“Ok.” Eleanor folds her hands in her lap, tilting her head back with a sigh. She gazes at the house, grey eyelashes fluttering. “You ever think we'd be living somewhere like this?”

“Ain't me, Ma. Just you.”

She turns to him, frowning a little. “You know Hershel says you're welcome.”

Eleanor Dixon is not tall, but she isn't small either; people are always surprised to learn that Daryl and Merle get their heft from her. It took the women's shelter aback, seeing a woman with shoulders like a linebacker stumbling in with broken ribs and cigarette brands, especially when her skinny-dick husband came roaring in after her. But for his height and the hump of his belly, Will Dixon could never be called a big man; long as he didn't have a knife, the thimble-sized secretaries manning the intake room were enough to put him out on his ass.

These women looked at her and they looked at her husband, and every time, they asked Eleanor: Why didn't you fight back? Built like an ox with a husband like that—bean-thin neck and arms like chicken legs—why didn't you protect yourself? Why didn't you protect your boys?

Eleanor only took them there a few times. After that she'd be too drunk to even make it down the street.

“Nah, this is for you.” Daryl clears his throat. “A fresh start, right?”

She puts her hand on the seat at her side; his eyes flicker towards her. “Don't mean I don't want you with me.”

Daryl shrugs. “Still. First time I got a place to myself, right? Might be nice.”

His ma grins at him. “Might not be just you for long.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, gritting his teeth. “Ma...”

“Plenty of daughters at those antique sales Hershel takes me to...”

_“Ma.”_

“Ain't getting no grandchildren from Merle...”

_“Ma!”_

She throws her head back and cackles. No soft giggles with his ma.

“Ain't funny,” he grumbles, yanking the keys out of the ignition and sticking them in his pocket.

“Oh, you know it is.” She smacks the seat. “What is it with you Dixons and girls, huh? Merle can't keep one, you can't get one. And y'all so handsome too.”

“Ain't like we had no model relationship,” Daryl grumbles.

And there it is—the whip-crack silence that splits the car, strikes his ma's expression onto her face like a brand. He's used to this, the way she freezes when anything uncomfortable gets brought up, like a deer in his bow-sight, or a possum in the road—more like a possum, really, cause as he's grown he's grown to realize recalling the past is no different from crossing a highway, busy with memories to run you down.

So she sits, blinking, same smile, same posture, looking at him, and Daryl feels the familiar drip of shame begin to plunk into his gut.

Just when he's about to cut and run her smile twitches, and she reaches for her purse.

“Ma—“

“C'mon while the getting's good!”

Daryl watches her swing out of the truck, stumbling a little when she hits the ground. Sighing, Daryl follows.

The air, when it hits, is alien to him, scented heavily of hayseed and horses; not the fog of the city but not the cleanness of the woods either. Something between, maybe, or something apart; whatever it is, it tickles his nose and he has to work his jaw to hold off a sneeze.

“How the fuck will you manage your allergies out here?” he asks, hurrying to the bed of the truck before she can try unloading her things herself.

“I'll get used to it,” she says, rolling her eyes when Daryl shoulders her gently out of the way. The box is heavy, but even so he hefts it easily. Practically skipping, she leads the way up the drive.

He expects her to ring the bell, but instead she starts fishing around in her purse. She pulls out the keys to their apartment (his apartment, he reminds himself, just his). It's still on the ring with the rabbit's foot he made for her when he was twelve, but it isn't alone anymore. A freshly cast key sits alongside it, which she takes carefully in her hand.

“He made you a key?” Daryl asks, hefting the box up higher.

“I live here too, now, don't I?” She glances at him. “He made one for you, too.”

Daryl grimaces.

Eleanor sighs silently and fits the key into the lock.

They step into the foyer and Daryl doesn't think he's been in a house this nice his whole life. It looks like something from the movies; antique furniture and clean smooth hardwood, paintings and family pictures taking up an appropriate amount of wall space. Except for a softcover book on the coffee table, there isn't an ounce of clutter anywhere; even the work-boots by the door have their own little cubbies.

“We need to take our shoes off or something?” Daryl asks out the corner of his mouth.

Eleanor snorts quietly. “ _No,_ he ain't _that_ bad. Just likes his space neat.” Eleanor is quiet for a moment, looking around. “He has a housekeeper, you know,” she says. “Every Sunday, while he's at church. Does all the dusting, vacuuming.” She stands up a little straighter, looking at Daryl with a crooked grin. “I'm a lady with a housekeeper, now.”

“Don't let it go to your head,” Daryl mutters. He looks around once more, purposefully letting his eyes slide unseeing across the family pictures. “Where ya want—“

“Maggie!”

He's cut off by a shout from upstairs; it's so sudden it nearly has him dropping the box and reaching for his knife, never mind he doesn't have it on him. Moments later they hear the rapid patter of socked feet on the stairs. A pair of slim legs emerge.

“Maggie, where'd you stash your tampons? I ran out and it got all over my undies again...”

She trails off as they come into view, slowing her downward race until she stops three steps short of the bottom. She's wearing a tank top and loose blue pajama bottoms and he can't help zeroing in on the space between her thighs.

When he looks up she's staring at him with possibly the biggest eyes he has ever seen, and for the first time in weeks he feels the strangest urge to burst out laughing.

“Uh. You're not Maggie.”

“No.” The word slips through without Daryl's permission, and he feels his own neck flush as she continues to hold his gaze.

“Ok.” Finally she looks away from him. She raises her hand in an awkward little wave. “Hi Eleanor.”

Luckily, his ma is used to ignoring uncomfortable situations, and speaks as if nothing strange is happening. “Hi Bethy. Sorry we're early, your dad said—“

“Yeah, I knew you were coming, I just didn't...” She glances at Daryl again, lingering for a beat too long before she visibly pulls herself together. “Sorry, I should be dressed.” She spins around on the steps, tossing over her shoulder, “You just throw that anywhere, I'll be back in a jiffy!”

They hear a dozen smacks of feet on wood, the slam of a door, and all is silence.

Daryl and Eleanor stand by each other, staring at the stairs where the girl had vanished.

“Well,” Eleanor says. “Meet your new sister.”

* * *

She's waiting downstairs when Daryl gets inside with the second box.

He left Eleanor outside on the phone with Hershel; is glad he doesn't need to be near that sickly sweet tone in her voice for too long, like she's finally seen the sunshine or some shit. Without some prompting they never get to the actual conversation; just recount every minute since they've last spoken like they're each other's verbal diaries. Daryl's used to it with his ma, the way she goes on and on regardless of whether her audience (usually Daryl) is listening or not. It's one of the reasons she got beat so often, the way she never shut up. It wasn't that Pop didn't want noise—he'd play old Doc Watson records loud as anything, have his buddies from work over and rock the house till the sun shone—but it had to be _his_ noise. Nothing else would do.

It's why he couldn't stand his wife's prattling: No matter how much he beat her down, how much he spat in her eye or called her worthless, Eleanor Lanou Dixon's voice belonged to her.

 _And now she has someone to give it back to her,_ Daryl thinks as he pauses on the porch, glancing back before shouldering the door open. His ma's leaning on his truck like he imagines she would have when she was a teenager: shoulders back and hip cocked, phone clutched in one sweaty hand as she smooths her hair with the other. The light in her eyes is almost manic, the way it darts here and there, settling on a wave of grass or the wood of a fence, breathing life into old things. Breathing life into her, in a way Daryl'd never been able to do. Never really tried, all those times he closed his ears.

“Worthless sack of shit,” he mutters as the door smacks into his ass, held out so it won't hit the doorframe.

“What is?”

Daryl nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden breezy voice, dropping halfway into a crouch and gripping the box tight.

Then he sees, for the second time this day, that it's the girl— _Beth, his new sister, Christ_ —straightening from where she's leaning on the bannister, shooting him a shy little smile and fiddling with a loose part of her thumbnail. A collection of bracelets, no two alike, jangle from her wrist. She's changed into a t-shirt and jeans, throwing her hair in a messy ponytail that's already falling to pieces. He realizes she's quite pale without a blush suffusing her face and neck.

Daryl straightens with a scowl. “None'a your damn business,” he mutters. He stalks over to the stairs, pretending not to watch her as he sets the box down by the first.

“Ooooook,” she says, drawing out the word like a stretched piece of bubblegum. He's surprised she isn't chewing any, to be honest; with those busted-up cowboy boots and acid-washed jeans, she has the innocent farmgirl look down to a T. All but that pale skin; barely has freckles, although he isn't close enough to really see.

 _Girl must keep her lazy ass inside; don't stay that white from working a farm,_ the part of him that sounds like his daddy whispers; he flinches his shoulders to dislodge the specter, but it won't quite let go; he glances at her and wonders bitterly what scars she could have, beyond paper-cuts.

“Anything I can help with?”

Daryl snorts before he can stop himself, looking her up and down with a derisive jerk of his chin.

“'Less those spaghetti arms got some kinda warp drive, I don't think you'd be much help here.”

He can see every individual emotion pass across her face: shock, then hurt, then anger, then a simmering irritation that reminds him of a cat lashing its tail.

 _This is the kind of girl can't hide anything,_ he thinks as she crosses her arms, tightening her expressive brow.

“You always this rude, or is this special for me?”

“You always scream about your girl parts in front of strangers?”

Daryl allows himself a moment of glee as red suffuses her face again. He smirks at her obvious discomfort and turns back towards the door. Before he's fully turned away, however, he sees her body shift, winching up her resolve and tightening her face and then she's stepping between him and the door, going up on tiptoe and saying to his face:

“I'm betting that's the closest you've gotten to girl parts in _years,_ Daryl Dixon.”

Well then.

Daryl blinks, a flush creeping up his own neck now. He knows he should say something, deny it maybe, but the shock of hearing the truth from this pipsqueak of a thing has him taken aback. As the silence runs on too long he watches in mild horror as her expression morphs back into shock, and then into a touch of contrition.

“Oh,” she says.

_Damn, boy, little bitty's got your number, don't she?_

Daryl huffs out a breath and turns away from her, filling his chest as he heads for the boxes.

“I'm sorry,” she says from behind him, “I didn't—“

“Fuck off,” he mutters, pulling out his switchblade and cutting through the tape. Against his will he tries to remember the last time he got near some _girl parts,_ and for a moment comes up short. He knows he would've been drunk when it happened, probably shoved into a back room with a girl and some whiskey like a gladiator into the lion's den. Knows, knowing him, he would've come too soon, or been too rough, or done something she didn't like until she got exasperated and rolled away, leaving him to stare at the ceiling and wonder why he doesn't feel more bothered.

Yeah, so maybe it's been a while. Maybe, the way she must be thinking of it, all romantic-like on white sheets with smooth jazz playing in the background, it's been always. And he's ok with that, usually. He has his hand, has his imagination; not like he could bring girls around with Merle and Ma in and out of his place anyway. Maybe now, with Ma here and Merle where-the-fuck-ever, he'll have more chances to get his dick wet.

He doesn't look at the girl; doesn't want her to see how that thought fills him with dread.

He busies himself rearranging things in the box at random, hoping she'll take the cue and leave. But he doesn't hear her footsteps receding; instead, they're coming closer, tightening his spine with every pat of her feet. She mounts the stairs and he expects her to keep going and leave him be, but she stops about level with his head, sitting down and looking at him through the bannister.

“What?” he asks shortly.

He sees her shrug out of the corner of his eye. She's looking at her hands, fiddling with a silver bracelet. “You think you'll be here often?”

He doesn't want to look at her but he does, turning in his crouch, eyes narrowed to slits. “What, you don’t think I should be here or something?”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course not. It was just a question.” She tilts her head like an inquisitive bird. “Do you want to be here?”

He suddenly feels like the bannister bars are made of iron, and he's looking out through a cage. He feels subdued under her consideration, like she's cast some sort of spell; that she'll look at him like this, like his body is in braille and she's sweeping across it with the fingers of her eyes, reading him like a goddamn textbook, for as long as she damn well likes. And it is for a while, at least for him; him, crouched on his haunches above a box of his mother's things, getting read by some teenybopper. He wonders suddenly how old she is; he wonders what his ma has told her about him.

He wonders what she's figured out on her own.

Finally, her head goes back to center and he releases the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. He looks down at the box where his hands have been hanging limply, useless; he paws at the top layer just to pretend he'd come to this position with a purpose.

His whole body freezes when he sees it.

If he weren't avoiding this girl's gaze so intently, he never would have spotted it; just a glimpse of shimmer sticking out from one of his ma's sleep shirts. His heart pounds as he shifts the fabric aside to be sure, stutters a little when he sees it in full: a piece of scrap metal hammered and shaped into the figure of an owl. He remembers this owl, the stories attached to it; how when Ma was at her drunkest, she would gather Daryl to her chest and show him the thing Will Dixon used to propose to her, a thing he'd made with his own two hands. She'd rub her tears and slobber into the back of his skull as she told the story, whispering each time: “See how he loves me. See how he loves me.” She nearly killed herself twice over, pulling from the fireman's arms and running back into the house she burned down, just to find her little owl.

He thought she threw this out years ago.

“What is that?”

He jumps a little at her voice, almost dropping the figurine. He glances at the girl, then shoves it down out of sight.

“Nothing,” he mutters. “Just junk.”

“It's pretty,” she says. She's looking at him curiously again, like he's one big puzzle. “You staying for lunch?”

“No,” he says shortly. He stands, wincing a little at the creak in his knees. He hopes she didn't notice. “I gotta get outta here. If I leave'm in the drive, you can get the rest of the boxes?”

“What, with my spaghetti arms?” she asks, grinning cheekily.

“Whatever,” Daryl grumbles.

He reaches into his pocket for his car keys, glancing at her a moment. She has her arms wrapped around her knees as she looks up at him, ponytail tumbling down across her shoulder. She looks older, suddenly; as if between kneeling and standing she's grown older.

“Who the hell are you, anyway?”

If she's taken aback by his question, she doesn't show it; just tilts her head again, like a goddamn bird, eyeing him like a piece of bark she wants to peck away at.

When she speaks though, her voice has more of a lilt than a bite; something light and simple, as if he should know this already. Not that he's an idiot for not knowing; like it's something she told him long ago. Something he's forgotten.

She gives a shrug, a sheepish grin.

“I'm Beth,” she says.

However much he wants to, he can't argue with that.

He nods at her, and returns to his mother in the yard, resolutely driving the girl on the stairs from his mind.


	2. Save a Little Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks after Daryl's ma moved in with her fiance, Daryl still doesn't consider the Greenes family; especially not the enigmatic girl he met on the stairs. 
> 
> In the end, though, he's still Daryl; and when he gets a late night phone call asking for help, it's big brother to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovelies. I really don't have anything to say about the finale last night; I'm hurt and confused and numb, but I'm going to try to continue writing, because I adore these character and because Beth Greene deserves better.
> 
> So. This chapter is one of my favorite things that I've written in a while. I hope it lifts your spirits a bit.
> 
> Warnings for sexual harassment.

He's gonna kill him. He's gonna hunt him down and he's gonna fucking kill him.

It takes five slams of Daryl's hand on the bedside table to find the violently buzzing phone. He feels its vibrations through his entire body as he drags it onto the bed, pausing with it on the pillow by his head, considering a moment just letting it ring through. Whatever trouble Merle's in (and he knows it's Merle—only three people have this number and only one of them is asshole enough to call when he's sleeping), let him figure it out on his own for once. Aaron had been out sick today, leaving Daryl to run the office as well as the garage front. It's not like he did more than the bare minimum in there, but that minimum included customers and that ain't something Daryl's here for.

So he's exhausted. And Merle's calling. And he's gonna fucking kill him.

“You better be dead in a ditch, asshole,” he says into the phone, sleep-slurred and annoyed, “or I swear to fuck I'll put you there.”

There's silence on the other end of the line. It lasts long enough for Daryl's mind to catch up, realize he's never heard Merle pause this long in his life. He feels a spike of real worry before a small voice replies.

“Um. I'm not dead.”

Daryl's eyes shoot open. He pulls the phone away from his ear to look at the front. Where he expects to find his brother's name is just a string of meaningless numbers.

“The fuck is this?” he asks, scrubbing his free hand across his eyes.

“It's Beth.”

Daryl frowns.

“Who?”

“Your... Hershel's daughter. Beth.”

 _Beth._ And the voice clicks. A little distorted by the phone line and his own fuzzy ears, but Beth nonetheless. The day he met her a couple of weeks ago comes rushing back, along with a new flood of confusion.

“How'd you get this number?”

“Daddy gave it to me. For emergencies.”

Daryl rolls onto his side and squints at the clock. Almost 2am. He flops onto his back.

“And is this an emergency?” he growls.

“Not... a little bit?”

Daryl glares at the ceiling. He closes his eyes. Mutters. “What is it?”

“Can you pick me up?”

She says the words so quickly they come out like the Road Runner's dust trail, and it takes him a moment to decipher them.

“Where the fuck are you?”

“A party.”

“And none'a your people can get you?”

“I snuck out.”

Well then.

“I'm really sorry,” she says, still all in a rush. “I know we only met once and I shouldn't've called, but Daddy'd kill me if he found out about this. And Maggie's over an hour away and she'd tell Daddy anyway, and I... I really don't want to be here.”

She says the last part so miserably that Daryl feels himself wake up a little bit, if only to wonder what's got a girl like her sounding like that.

“How you know _I_ won't tell your daddy?”

She snorts quietly through the phone. He almost wishes she'd stayed miserable.

“You haven't even met him yet. I don't think you want the first thing you say to him to be tattling on his daughter.” There's another pause as Daryl struggles to get over the accuracy of that statement. “Please,” she says. “I promise I'll make it up to you.”

Daryl glances at the clock again. Closer to 2am. Might as well get this over with.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Where are you?” he asks quickly, cutting off her thanks.

“210 Lauriston,” she says in a breath of relief.

Daryl rolls his eyes. He knows that area. He and Merle worked for a high-end landscape guy for a bit. They spent weeks on that fucking block.

“A'right,” he says, making sure she hears his groan as he levers himself upright. “I'll be there in 20 minutes.”

“ _Thank you,_ Daryl.”

“Whatever,” he mutters. He's about to hang up, but pauses. “Where are you?”

“I told you—“

“You outside?”

“Yeah.”

Daryl grabs his jeans from the floor, giving them a quick sniff before tossing them towards the bed.

“Wait for me in the house.”

He can practically hear the crinkle in her brow through the phone. “Why?”

It takes him a moment of effort not to tell her exactly why. And even then, he's too tired to give much of a damn.

“More witnesses,” he says flatly.

“...Oh.”

Fucking yeah, _oh_. “20 minutes,” he growls, stumbling towards the dresser. “If you ain't ready then I'm leaving you there.”

“I'll be ready,” she says confidently.

“Better be,” Daryl mutters. He hangs up.

He stands a few moment in front of the dresser, phone swinging in his grip as he stares blankly at the wall.

If he crashes his truck from exhaustion he's never doing a good deed ever fucking again.

* * *

It's a little under 20 minutes later when Daryl rolls to a stop in front of 212, squinting up the block and exhaling a lungful of smoke with irritation. He could tell from halfway down the road which house he was going for, even without the numbers. The place is lit up like a fucking airfield—Christmas lights hang haphazardly from the eaves, and he can feel the boom of the bass from here. If the plots of land weren't so fucking big, they'd've had the cops called on their asses hours ago.

Daryl sighs heavily and flicks his cigarette out the window, making sure it lands on the manicured lawn before jumping out of the truck. The air is chill even through his leather jacket, but he'd kept the window open the whole way down in an attempt to stay awake. It worked to some extent, but he still nearly trips over the curb before righting himself, muttering under his breath as he locks the car and stalks towards the house. He pauses by the huge front window, trying to peer in through the blinds. All he can tell is there are enough bodies to keep their shadows from being distinguishable.

“Girl better give me a fucking pony for this,” he mutters as he stomps up to the door. He raises his hand to ring the bell, pauses with his finger hovering; rolling his eyes, he shoves his way in. Courtesy be damned.

Turns out no one would've heard the bell even if he tried it. The noise hits him like a solid wall, alongside the smell of beer and body odor. He wrinkles his nose at the writhing mass, shutting the door behind him and once again cursing whoever created teenage girls.

“Don't even have someone on the door,” he mutters to himself as he begins pushing through the crowd. “Could be a fucking serial killer and they'd let me right in—“

“Hey man, why're you so _old?”_

Daryl freezes, glaring at the string bean that's stumbled into his path. His face is the same color as his bright red hair and he's taller than Daryl by at least a head. He's swaying like he's got plenty of wind up there, and Daryl almost steps back to be sure he doesn't fall on him.

“Ain't fucking old,” he growls, smacking the kid's drink out of his hands. He makes a loud whine of protest, dropping to the floor to reach for the cup. Rolling his eyes, Daryl steps over his bent back, just stopping himself from kicking him for good measure.

The house is just as big as it looked from the outside, and every room is packed; he's in there for well-on 10 minutes before he spots the top of a blonde head in the corner.

“Beth!” he hollers, but of course his voice is swallowed by the crowd. Growling to himself, Daryl begins to shove forward in her direction, using sheer body weight to displace the teens around him. The flow of people keeps making her bob in and out of sight. He feels like he did that night Merle left him drunk and alone in the woods and he had to stumble his way home on his own.

Once he can see her with some measure of consistency, he calls her name again, but again she doesn't hear. She seems distracted. She's pressed to the wall with her clutch held tight to her stomach, a pained, overly-polite smile on her face as she looks at someone. He sees her mouth move and then she takes a step back all the way into the corner, shoulders tightened nearly to her ears, and the guy she's talking to comes into view.

Talking to _her_ , more like, and Daryl knows the instant his eyes sweep the kid's body that he's a predator—he's already stepped forward to follow Beth, leaning into her space as her smile grows tighter and tighter. He's taller than Daryl, Daryl notes, taller and bigger—but he holds himself like muscle got made in the gym, not the streets; probably never threw a real punch in his life. Add that to the solo cup in his hand and Daryl doesn't feel worried at all.

He's leaning in towards Beth again when she glances into the crowd and locks eyes with Daryl. He nearly forgets what he's supposed to be doing when her face falls slack with relief. He doesn't think _anyone's_ ever looked relieved to see him, let alone a woman, and it sets his heart pounding in the weirdest way.

A pounding that skips a beat when she begins to step forward and the douche's hand lands in a bruising grip on her arm.

When he looks back on the next few seconds, he's sure he must have had some kind of blackout; one moment he's shoving ineffectively against a wall of inebriated teenage flesh, and the next he's putting a hand in his pocket and taking one stride then another and slamming the guy against the wall by his throat.

“Daryl!”

The kid hits the wall with a satisfying thump, shooting out an automatic punch that Daryl easily dodges, coming back up with his hand even tighter. Daryl can't quite reach the guy's eyeline, but the way Daryl's cutting off his air—fingers on the pressure points, just like Merle taught him—he isn't looking away any time soon.

“The fuck—“ he gasps, “Get the fuck off me!”

“Nah, I don't think so,” Daryl drawls.

“You looking to lose your arms, son? Imma mess you up—“

Daryl can sense a pause in the movement at his back as people stop to look; he needs to make this quick. He flexes the wrist he has stuck in his pocket. He didn't necessarily want to do this, but he doesn't see much choice.

Besides, the kid's nasal, upcountry voice is pissing him off.

“—dad's the county judge and he'll go _off_ on your redneck a—“

In a moment, his voice stutters to a stop and his legs stop their kicking.

It's amazing how well a switchblade to the crotch gets their attention.

“You wanna know what's good for you?” Daryl asks, stepping in close, letting the kid feel his breath on his face. “Stayin' away from Beth, and shutting the _hell_ up.”

“What, you her dad or something?”

Daryl's eyes narrow and he twists the blade; he feels it snick on the kid's pants, not quite enough to break through but enough to feel like it's about to.

The kid is damn near shaking now, but he still tries to play it cool, cocking a pale blonde eyebrow.

“Come on, man, ease up a bit. You know how it goes—“

This time he does reach skin; feels the elastic of it bend and break.

The kid whimpers, and Daryl can almost hear Merle crowing in the background.

“You think long and hard about this,” Daryl says. He jerks his head towards Beth. “Her pussy worth your balls?”

“N–no.”

“Daryl—“

“I didn't hear ya.”

“Her pussy ain't worth my balls!”

Daryl opens his mouth, then pauses as he feels a weight on his arm. He looks down at Beth looking up, face pale as snow. She looks a mix of embarrassed and scared and something else that he can't name even as it makes his heart begin to pound. They lock eyes for a long moment.

Letting out a huff of breath, Daryl shoves once more on the kid's throat, making him gag before dropping his arm and stepping back.

“Shame,” Daryl says, lifting the blade and snapping it shut. “I was looking forward to taking them.”

“C'mon, Daryl...”

He shoots the kid one last menacing glare before letting Beth drag him back into the crowd.

Daryl breathes in a huge gulp of air as they emerge into the night, letting it whoosh in and out of his lungs with relief. He takes the moment to stand by the front door and just tilt his head back, enjoying the feel of the cool breeze on his overheated skin. His hands are shaking a little from adrenaline and some of his anxiety from being in such tight quarters; when he opens his eyes, he finds Beth watching them, and he immediately snaps his wrists to shut them up.

 _Girl looks a mess,_ Daryl thinks, getting his first good look at her. Her ponytail's falling down again, matted to her neck and shoulders where they're bared by the thin straps of her sweetheart-necked pink dress. The paleness of her skin has given way to a bleeding red that reaches all the way down below her collarbones, and only accentuates where her eyeliner has rubbed off below her eyes. When she looks up at him from his hands she seems to flush even deeper, biting her lip and looking at her feet.

“You didn't have to do that.”

Daryl feels a flash of anger. He shoves the switchblade back in his pocket and gropes for his lighter.

“Sorry princess, you're right; you _sure_ had that handled.”

Her head jerks up, mouth falling open. “I didn't mean... I meant you didn't have to do that. I meant thank you.” The last words come out as a whisper, and when she sniffs loudly Daryl feels like a right bastard.

“Well... a'right.” He's finally found the lighter, but doesn't pull it out just yet; just leaves his hand in his pocket as he squints at her. “You know that douchebag?”

“Tony?” _'Course his name is fucking Tony._ “I mean, I've seen him around. He was just drunk.”

“Shouldn't'a been talking to him in the first place.”

A scowl flashes across Beth's face. “ _You're_ the one who told me to wait inside.”

Daryl opens his mouth, then closes it. What could he really say to that?

As he recovers, Beth looks at her feet again, then seems to remember the jean jacket she has slung over her arm. She quickly slides into it, wrapping it around herself with a shiver.

“Y'ok?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says with a quick smile. “Just cold.”

He feels in that moment that he should do something about that; give her his coat or something. But the thought of actually doing it leaves a weird taste in his mouth that he doesn't really want to think about as he watches goosepimples break out across her collarbones.

Shaking himself in what he hopes she interprets as a shiver, he jerks his head towards where his truck is parked. “C'mon,” he says. She nods, and falls into silent step beside him.

When they reach the truck, however, she pauses. He looks back at her, raising an eyebrow.

She fidgets on her feet. “You mind if we stay out here a minute? My legs need stretching.”

He looks skeptically at the way her torso is still shaking a little. He shrugs.

“Suit yourself.” He reaches back into his pocket for his lighter and pulls a box of smokes from his jacket. He pauses with the cig half-way to his mouth. “You mind?”

She jerks a little, like he startled her out of thought. She blinks and shakes her head. “No, no, go ahead.”

“Y'want one?”

She raises her eyebrows at that.

“Just asking,” Daryl grumbles. He sticks the cigarette in his mouth and starts flicking at the lighter. “What were you doing here anyway? Don't look like you've been drinking.”

“I wasn't,” Beth says. She has her arms wrapped around herself as she watches the flame burst from between his fingers. “I've never been to a party before, not really. It's my friend's birthday, though, so... figured as good a time as any, right?”

“She got something against the movies?” Daryl asks, scowling as the butt fails to light.

“No,” she says, rolling the syllable around like it's something he should have realized. “Diane isn't really a movie person.” She watches him cup his hand around the flame. “She went off with some guy. We used her car, so... that's why I called you.”

“Couldn't'a found a fella yourself?”

Her cheeks flood again with red, and Daryl thinks he should feel more awkward about this. It feels almost good, though. Like he's teasing her.

And a moment later a rueful little smile does slide onto her face. “I _could've,_ but you tried to cut his balls off.”

Daryl shrugs, unable to stop his own lips from quirking. “Looked like a lousy lay anyway.” The flame finally catches and Daryl snaps the lighter closed in triumph, breathing in deeply and letting the smoke roll from his nose.

He looks up and sees Beth watching him wide-eyed. He gestures with his chin. “Sure you don't want some?” he asks.

She purses her lips and shakes her head. “That's ok. I like my lungs cancer-free, thank you very much.”

Daryl opens his mouth to reply when he sees something dark pass across her face, like she's realized something about what she just said. She looks at her feet, and Daryl closes his mouth. She looks at the house, and suddenly she's sniffing again and Daryl feels dread begin to roll through his stomach.

“Uh—“

“We can get going if you want, I know you probably—“ she breaks off as she chokes on a breath. Both eyes spill over at once. “Probably wanna get home, right?”

“Uh...”

“Look, I'm fine this is just...” She gestures at herself, at first with strength and then a bit helplessly. She shakes her head, choking off a sob and stepping towards the car door. “It's, it's nothing, let's just—“

“Hey.” Before he thinks, Daryl steps forward and takes hold of her arm. He doesn't realize until he does it that this is the same place Tony grabbed her. He also doesn't realize how his voice sounds on that one syllable; a sound he doesn't think he's made before in his life, something soft and hesitant and... and fucking _warm,_ and why is she looking at him with eyes that wide?

He drops her arm quickly, takes a step back. “Just tell me what's the fucking problem,” he mutters.

She's still blinking at him, but at least she's stopped crying. She bites her lip and shakes her head again. “It's silly,” she says quietly.

“You're the one crying about it.” His voice is rough, accusatory; but when she looks at him he knows she's thinking about before. About that 'hey.' He's the one flushing now.

He wonders if that's what gets her to open her mouth. “I saw my boyfriend.”

Daryl almost bites through his cigarette on the word 'boyfriend.' Has to pull it from his mouth before he swallows the ash. “What, he usually invisible?”

Beth sniffs loudly, shaking her head. “No.” Something sharp and angry passes over her face. When she looks up, he's surprised she doesn't snarl. “But he's usually not getting his—his _thing_ sucked by Joanie Barker.”

Daryl raises his eyebrows. “That why you wanted to leave so badly?”

“Part of it.” She folds her arms across her stomach, hugging herself. “I wasn't having fun before that anyway.”

“Pretty hard to have fun at these kinda things 'less you're drunk.”

She looks at him, a small smile playing on her mouth. “You have much experience with _these kinda things_ , Mr. Dixon?”

Daryl inhales a long drag on his cigarette, letting it out with a shrug. “Some. None'a them in houses like this though. Never got head from no Joanie Barker either.”

Beth giggles, and Daryl feels something in his chest loosen a bit.

“Good to know that isn't a common occurrence, then.”

“Good for you, maybe.”

She giggles again, a little manically as another sob bubbles up through her throat. She looks at him apologetically.

“Sorry.”

He shrugs.

“Wanna go now?” she asks.

“A'right.” She moves towards the car, but Daryl thinks of something. “How long've y'all been dating anyway?”

His voice stops her with her hand on the handle. She looks up at him.

“Since eighth grade. Two years.”

Daryl's eyebrows climb towards his hairline. “Y'all on the rocks or something?”

“I didn't think so.” Beth fidgets a little, another blush building on her face. “Well,” she says. “He was sorta... annoyed with me.”

“Yeah?”

Beth bites her lip. “I wouldn't, you know. Do stuff.”

Daryl frowns, sucking in a drag. “Do what? Drink?”

She shakes her head, blush building, and it hits Daryl with the force of a freight train.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Beth looks like she wants to melt into her jean jacket. Even worse, it looks like she's gonna start crying again. “Guess it makes sense, right? No sixteen year old wants to date a prude.”

Daryl snorts, startling both of them. He's silent a moment, then shakes his head. “Y'ain't a prude. He's just an asshole.”

Beth looks skeptical. “Really?”

“Yeah. You don't wanna do it with him, probably ain't worth it anyway.” Daryl looks at her, rolling the cig between his lips. A thought is building—a crazy thought, something he's sure Merle is beaming into his brain from wherever the fuck he is, but... “Y'know what his car looks like?”

Beth frowns. “His car?”

“Yeah. Your boyfriend's car.”

Beth looks around a moment, then points a few cars behind his. “That one. The Mercedes.”

_Daddy's money. Perfect._

Beth looks a little perturbed by the smirk that erupts onto his face before he spins around and strides towards the bed of his truck. He pulls the red rag out of his back pocket, holding it out towards Beth. “Here, tie this over the license plate.”

“Huh?”

“You deaf or something, girl?”

She wrinkles her nose, then goes to comply. As she works he lowers the tailgate, then roots around inside until he finds what he's looking for.

When Daryl holds up the plank of wood, she looks confused.

When he tosses her the crowbar, she starts to panic.

“Um. Daryl. What is this?”

“Crowbar,” he grunts around his cigarette, going to the drivers seat and turning on the engine.

“Um. Yeah, I know what a crowbar is, Daryl.” Daryl strides past her. He stops by the Mercedes, and turns to see she's followed him. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Gonna beat him off,” Daryl says, grinning at his own joke. His bad joke. The joke he told to this teenage girl who's looking at him like he just told her he lays eggs in the morning. He flips the wood into the air like a baseball bat, catching it elegantly. He meets her eyes, then slams the wood into the driver's side window.

She jumps at the impact, and he nearly laughs at how scandalized she looks.

“Daryl! What the heck are you—” He smacks the window again, and again, and once more until a web of cracks appears on the glass. He looks up, and sees Beth staring open-mouthed. “I... Daryl!”

“C'mon, Greene. Bastard made you cry.” He cocks an eyebrow, tongues the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. She watches it bob as he speaks, as if entranced. “You gonna take that?”

She stares at him, then at the crowbar, and back at him again. The silence stretches on. He begins to feel a sinking sensation in his stomach. What kind of fool is he? Met this girl two times—daddy's girl, probably shits rainbows and vomits sunshine—and he's trying to get her to commit vandalism? This is something Merle would do. What the hell is he—

And now she's stepping forward; slow, hesitant, her wedge-heeled sandals silent on the pavement. She stops in front of the car, looks in his eyes. He holds his breath as he watches hers, pale in the dark. He feels like he's falling into them.

Just as he's about to say her name, she raises the crowbar and smashes it into the headlight.

She jumps a little at the sound it makes as it shatters, looking at him open-mouthed.

“Did I—“

“Fuck yeah, Greene!” Daryl crows. He swings his plank, denting the door. “Get the other one, c'mon.”

And she does. Swings and hits, just like the first, like she's played baseball her whole life—and maybe she has, he should ask her—but now she's moved on to the windshield, giving it great overhanded smacks until it shatters and the alarm finally starts blaring into the night.

Daryl grins at Beth, and opens his mouth to congratulate her when her eyes go wide. He looks over his shoulder and sees what she does; the door of 210 has opened and the crowd’s spilled out, led by one screaming, half dressed teenager.

“Shit!” Daryl gives the door one more hit before pitching his cig through the gaping windshield. Beth follows his example, giving the other door a few good whacks before Daryl's grabbing her hand and dragging her towards the truck. “C'mon, c'mon,” he says, practically tossing her into the passenger side before launching himself across the hood, through the driver's side door, and slamming his foot on the accelerator.

He catches Beth's eye as the wheels squeal on the pavement, and together they scream with delight as they shoot away into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI, Beth's boyfriend in this chapter is an OC, NOT Jimmy. Jimmy is a precious limp-noodle dumpling who would never in a million years cheat on Beth.
> 
> Also, I have never been to Georgia in my life and I do not know if anywhere called Lauriston exists. Deal with it.


	3. Conferences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl finally screws up his courage to return to the farm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the amazing comments! I'll try to reply to as many as I can when I have the chance. 
> 
> Answering some questions - Beth is 16 at the beginning of this fic, almost 17; Daryl is 35, and Eleanor is 63. Daryl is living in the apartment where he used to live with Eleanor. Merle drops in and out, but most of the time it was just Daryl and Eleanor. 
> 
> Hope that clears things up, and thanks for reading!

He's only done it only a few times before, and once more in the dark, but the ride up the long drive to the farm is getting worryingly familiar. Lounging back with one hand on the wheel, he goes slow, taking the time to watch the countryside roll past, the horses grazing in the pasture.

He has to admit, there is something inherently peaceful about this place—rustic, lost in time, some shit like that. After the life his ma's had—growing up in the Louisiana bayous, moving into a shit-hole Georgia house, burning the house and moving to a shit-hole trailer, staying there with Daryl and Pop while Merle wandered, waiting for the old man to die, counting on her son's charity to make sure she even gets out of bed in the morning—it must be nice for her, all this space. Based on the girl, at least, it sure raises interesting folk.

He thinks about Beth as he pulls into the drive, waits for the dust to settle. He hadn't come up this far when he dropped her off the week before; had sat just beyond the bend in the road, waiting for the light to flicker on in her bedroom before leaving. They didn't talk, much, the drive back from Lauriston Street; she seemed too breathless and he was just confused, confused and tired and still a little giddy over the way she looked with that crowbar in her hands. Reminded him of the warrior woman stuff he watched when Merle wasn't around to tell him how sissy it was. He didn’t think the show was sissy, and he definitely doesn't think she is; in that sweetheart dress with her makeup leaking down her face, illuminated by the party lights on her sweat-soaked skin, she'd looked like something... she'd looked like something. Something he didn't think existed.

He doesn't want to see her. Feels vaguely inappropriate about it, like being with her like that, experiencing the way she smiles when she doesn't care who's looking, wasn't something he was supposed to see. He doesn't know how they got from sniping over moving supplies to... whatever that was. Running and holding his hand. Grinning at him like he'd lassoed the goddamn moon for her, instead of incited her to commit vandalism. Him grinning right the fuck back, and since when does Daryl Dixon _grin?_

 _Since Beth Greene, apparently,_ he thinks, swinging out of the truck, leaving it unlocked as he trots to the house. He won't be here for long—just here to check on his ma, like he should’ve been doing more often. The two weeks before he saw Beth were spent talking himself in and out of it, coming up here. He could hear Merle's voice in his ear, calling him a mama's boy for the twist he'd get in his gut every morning, waking up in the bed his ma'd used for the past year, going to the kitchen and pouring cereal for one. He worries about her, is all; wasn't too long ago she'd needed help getting to the bathroom, some days, and now she's moving out, on her own? Not on her own, he guesses; but nonetheless, he can't quite trust her ability to take care of herself, fiance or not. It's who he is, and he can't help but worry.

He doesn't bother knocking; screws up his courage and pulls out the key his ma forced on him before he left that first day. He doesn’t see this as “his home too,” like she wants; but he'd rather spare himself the indignity of waiting for someone to answer the door like he's the pizza boy.

“Ma?” he calls as he steps inside, stomach screwed into knots as he prays that she's home alone. He realizes that he should have called ahead, but the adrenaline of finally convincing himself to come over had been too much to spare the time. It's been a few beats and nobody's answered yet, so maybe he should just go—

“In here!”

His stomach sinks. He knows that voice. He last heard it through the rolled down window of his truck, whispering a ghost-like goodnight.

Dragging his feet, Daryl starts through the first floor. She’s humming, almost like she's helping him find her, and that too feels like a ghost; even seeing her in the kitchen, hair illuminated by the light streaming through the windows, doesn't erase the sense of something spectral.

She's sitting at the kitchen table in an old grey t-shirt and jeans, bent over a pair of notebooks, a collection of multi-colored pens spread out across the tabletop. She's still wearing that mess of bracelets. Looking at the notebooks upside down, Daryl can tell one of them is full of plain black ink; the other is an explosion of color. A half-finished sandwich sits off to the side, filled with something green and leafy and probably containing more nutrition than Daryl's had all week. When she hears his boots she stops humming and looks up, a wide grin on her face.

“Hey!” she says brightly, capping her pen.

“Hey,” he grunts. He swallows. “Don't you got school?”

“We have off for conferences. Eleanor's with Daddy down at the school.”

Daryl frowns. “The hell's my ma doing talking to your teachers?”

Beth shrugs. She smiles conspiratorially. “I think she just wanted to spend time with Daddy. He's been working a lot of nights to pay for the wedding, so she's been stuck with me.”

“Sounds tough,” Daryl says.

Beth rolls her eyes, spinning her pen around her fingers. She jerks her chin at the chair opposite her. “Sit down, they've been gone a while; should be back soon. Everything ok?”

He only hesitates a moment before moving to sit down, the chair scraping a little on the tiles as he drops himself into it. “Yeah. Just wanna check on her.”

“That's real nice,” Beth says.

Daryl shrugs uncomfortably. “Just what I always done.”

“Like I said. That's nice.”

She's still fucking smiling. He wants to ask what's got her so happy but he realizes he's a little nervous to know.

Daryl clears his throat, jerking his chin at her notebooks. “What're you doing anyway?”

“Copying over my math notes,” she says.

“Why?”

“Keeps them organized, easier to read.” She smiles ruefully. “I know it's lame to care about school and all, but... I don't know. I wanna do well. Seems like a waste to spend the whole day somewhere and not make the most of it, right?”

“Wouldn't know,” Daryl mumbles, picking at his nails.

“Why?”

“Didn't get halfway through first year.”

Daryl isn't quite sure why he tells her this. Maybe it's the clear curiosity in her voice; maybe it's just been too damn long since he talked to someone beside Aaron. And he knew all this from Daryl's job app anyway.

She isn't looking at him like he's half-worried she would, though; just gives him the same cheery smile.

“Never had to take an AP then, huh? Heard those are brutal.”

Daryl thinks about what he knows as brutal and what she knows about it and almost snorts. But in the end he doesn't. Doesn't seem worth it, somehow.

“You good in school then?”

“Only cause I don't have anything better to do.” Her smile has turned a touch uncomfortable. “I mean, I help out on the farm and everything, but I don't really... do stuff.”

“Why?”

“Don't have many friends anymore.” She looks down at her hands, fiddles with a bracelet. “Mom was sick for a long time, and I just sorta... stopped talking to people.” She looks up at him, smiling weakly. “I'm not a total lame-o, though, I promise.”

“Wasn't thinking that at all,” Daryl says. He scratches the side of his face, then pulls his phone from his pocket, tossing it across the table to her. “Look at the contact stuff.”

She looks at him quizzically, then flips the phone open and does as he says. She's quiet for a few moments, then bursts into giggles.

Daryl can't quite muster up the scowl he wants, her sounding like that. “The fuck's so funny?”

“Only three people, Daryl?”

“Four, with the pizza place.”

She giggles a few more moments, then visibly tries to calm herself. “I'm so sorry, I just... wow, sorry.”

“S'fine. See though, ‘less you got less than that, you ain't lame-o at all.”

“I do have a few more than three.” Beth pauses, looking at him a moment, before typing into his phone. Daryl almost asks what she's doing, but decides against it; just watches her face scrunch as she concentrates on working the ancient keyboard.

Finally she stops and hands the phone back to him. “Ok, take a picture of me.”

Daryl raises his eyebrows. “Why?”

“So you see it's me when I call you.”

“You gonna call me often?”

“Do you want me to call you often?”

Daryl feels something in his chest clench a bit; pictures himself walking down his shitty street, her sunshine voice in his ear, bright and clear even over the tinny connection. He thinks he likes the thought more than he should.

He shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. “If you want.”

“Maybe I do. Now take the picture.”

He smirks a little at her impatience, raising the phone.

“Wait!” she calls out, raising her hands.

“What?” he asks.

“Gotta fix my hair.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, tapping his foot as she pulls her hair from its elastic, shaking it out across her shoulders before gathering it back again.

When she's done, she resettles herself in the chair, clears her throat. “Ok, ready.”

“Wanna do your makeup too, princess?”

“Hah hah. Take the picture.”

So he does; raises the phone, gazes through at her smile as it fills the screen; snaps the picture.

“Kay. Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.” Beth relaxes back in her seat. She looks at her notebooks.

“You wanna work, I can get going—“

“No, it's no trouble.” He must look skeptical, because she stretches her hand across the table, almost as if she wants to take hold of his. Her smile is soft. “Really,” she says. “I'm glad you're here.”

Her eyes are almost completely round, he realizes, when she looks at him like this; a perfect circle of white and dark and then lighter blue, the black of the pupil. The yellow light of the kitchen makes her irises look lighter than he thinks he's seen them before; her long lashes fluttering over them look like ripples in a sky-colored pond. He realizes that boys must find her quite beautiful.

He grunts, looks at his boots planted wide on the floor. When he looks up she's still looking at him; her hand has withdrawn, but she's still smiling.

“You talked to your boyfriend yet?” Daryl asks.

He doesn't realize until after he says it that he did so to get a respite from that smile; the moment it vanishes, though, he finds he misses it.

“Yeah,” she says, her mouth twisted like she's tasted something sour. “Not my boyfriend anymore, though.”

Daryl raises his eyebrows. “Must be heartbroken,” he says sarcastically.

She shrugs, playing absentmindedly with a fingernail. “I feel happy, I guess. Weird. Relieved. I dunno, a lot of things?” She bites her lip, looking at him like she's measuring how he might reply to whatever she's about to say. “It's sort of scary. It's not like I want to stay with him—cause I don't, he's a jerk.” Daryl nods, and Beth's mouth twitches. She looks at her hands, then back up. “I guess I just... I don't really know where to go from here. I've been with him so long, and he's been treating me like crap for so much of it, I don't know who I am without him. I don't think so, anyway. Like, how am I supposed to define myself if I'm not Theo's girlfriend? I know who I am, you know, in other senses, but... this part of me I've gotten so used to is just... gone. All gone.” She looks down again. She laughs uncomfortably. “Sorry. That's a lot to throw at you.”

“Nah,” Daryl says. “S'fine.” He looks at the top of her bowed head; the part in her hair, a little to the left of center, the paleness of her bare scalp. “Was like that when my dad died.”

She peeks up at him, brow furrowed. He feels his face flush under her scrutiny.

“Ya know, just... didn't miss him or nothing. 'Cept I did. I dunno.” Daryl shrugs, looking at his own lap. “Don't really wanna talk about him,” he mumbles.

“Ok.”

He glances up at her. She's looking at him with that damn bird look again, head tilted and considering. But not asking. Not pushing. She sighs and looks away, picks up a pen and twirls it in her fingers and he doesn't quite know what to do with the surge of affection he feels in his chest. He's just glad she isn't looking at him while he figures it out.

“I've been meaning to ask,” she says suddenly, looking at him again. “How'd you know Theo wouldn't call the cops? About the car?”

It's the first time she's mentioned the car since it happened—even on the drive back, they didn't discuss what they had done. Not in words, at least—the euphoria of it was an ever-present thrum on the bench between them, sitting and watching the road roll by like a third passenger.

Daryl hasn't really thought of how to address it. It feels like it should be a secret, even between the two of them; something that happened but doesn't need to be spoken of. But that's dumb, he knows that's dumb; the entire party knows what happened, even if they don't know who did it.

Speaking of which...

“You tell him it was you?”

Beth's mouth twists again. “Of course not. He didn't even blame me, he thought it was some drunk kids. Gave him a great victim card, though.” She leans forward a bit. “So how'd you know?”

Daryl shrugs. “His daddy got money for a car like that, he's got insurance too. Cops ain't worth the trouble.”

A smirk pulls on the corner of Beth's mouth. “You got much experience with this kinda thing, Mr. Dixon?”

Daryl shifts in his seat, because he does. Or he doesn't. Not directly. Merle was always the one stealing cars, getting drunk and bashing them up. Daryl helped sometimes, or course; whether at the bat or behind the wheel, just sober enough to keep from killing the two of them but with just the buzz to run them into a tree.

His mind jumps to the lambo Merle taught him to drive in. The night Daryl turned six his 19 year old brother absconded with him from his own bed, taking him on a mile long trek through the dark woods. Daryl still has some of the scars from the brambles that lacerated his legs that night, although they've all but been covered by new marks. In the end, though, it was worth it; emerging into the abandoned lot where the car waited, black as pitch and shining like the Batmobile in the moonlight. It was the first car Daryl drove, the first one he crashed, the first he wiped down for prints, the first he ran from after Merle tripped the alarm while returning it.

The first, and not the last, for any of these things, but it taught Daryl one of his first lessons in getting by in the world: Never break nothing that can't be replaced.

Not like he can tell Beth any of that, though. She probably already thinks he's a criminal, the way he laid into that car. Hell, he made her into one, just like Merle made him.

From Merle to Daryl to Beth. It's a correlation he finds himself not wholly comfortable with.

So he just grunts, shrugs his shoulders. And again, she accepts it. Sits back with her little smile, lips tight and stretched like she holds one end of the secret between the two of them. Picks up her pen again, spins it. Looks at Daryl out of the corner of her eye.

“I've never done anything like that before,” she says softly.

“Like what?”

“Like... like crazy. Wild.” She grins suddenly, wide. “You're a wild man, Daryl Dixon.”

Daryl doesn't quite know how to respond to that, so he doesn't; looks at the wall beyond her head, chews his lip.

When he looks back at her, she's still watching him. Her smile has gentled, but not vanished.

He wonders, suddenly, what her mother looked like; how deep her smile lines went.

“I just wanted to thank you for it,” she says. “For helping me do it. I couldn't'a done it on my own.”

Daryl isn’t sure about that. He thinks of the light in her eyes, as she swung the crowbar; the line of her bared teeth as she screamed with the impact, strong legs braced beneath sturdy hips. He thinks of the way she'd sassed him, the first day they met. Got right up in his face, stared him down.

 _I'm betting that's the closest you've gotten to girl parts in_ years, _Daryl Dixon._

“Yeah, you could've,” he says.

She looks ready to argue, but closes her mouth; looks at her hand drawing patterns on the tabletop.

“Maybe,” she says. She looks at him, smiling soft. “But I don't think I would have.”

Again, he doesn't know quite what to do with the feeling in his chest; like his heart is trying to punch its way through his ribcage, like there are tiny hammers at every pulse point, beating against the underside of his skin.

He doesn't know, and at last, he doesn't have to know; because just as he's working his way towards a reply he hears the front door open and close.

“Bethy! We're back!”

It's his ma calling, and it's only her footsteps he hears as he twists around to face the kitchen door.

Eleanor freezes for a moment in the doorway, looking between them with confusion, then delight.

“Daryl! I thought that was your truck!” She rounds Daryl's side of the table, kissing Beth on the cheek. She scrunches her face at the sticky feeling of his ma's lipstick; Daryl bites the inside of his cheek as she rolls her eyes at him.

“Hey Ma,” Daryl says.

“Bethy, I knew you were good in school, but you didn't tell me how much your teachers love you. Never heard praise like that for a human being in my life.” Eleanor bustles off towards the cabinets, standing on her tiptoes to peer in. Her steps are crooked, as always, from arthritis and too many broken bones, but she seems... comfortable, in this kitchen. Like it's a space she knows, a space she's conquered. An airy, flowering kingdom.

Beth is blushing. She glances at him. “Daryl came to check on you,” she says. “Ain't that nice?”

“Must be a girl thing,” Eleanor continues like she hasn't heard, voice muffled a little by the cupboard. “I know my boys never got such nice things said about _them_.”

_You never went to no parent-teacher conferences before, neither._

The kitchen sits without speech, the only noise Eleanor's shuffling by the counter. Daryl knows Beth is looking at him. He looks at his hands.

“Where's Daddy?” Beth asks at last. Daryl glances at her, and is glad to see she's looked away from him, towards Eleanor.

“Something on the sedan's gone a little funky, he wanted to take a look.”

“I can do that,” Daryl says without thinking. He flushes a little when Beth looks at him.

“You know cars?”

Eleanor scoffs. Daryl can feel the energy radiating off her, even from across the room; one of those moods where she needs her hands on everything, her voice going a mile a minute.

“Does he know cars, please; little D here's got his own garage.”

 _Little D?_ Beth mouths. Daryl flushes to his collarbone.

“Ain't mine,” he grumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Ain't even Aaron's, Ma.”

“How is Aaron?” she asks through a mouthful of crackers, walking over and tossing the box onto the table. “He managed to find a girlfriend yet?” She looks Beth up and down, smiling conspiratorially. “He ain't that much older than Bethy here...”

“He never wanted no _girl_ friend. Besides, he’s _married_.” He scowls then, looking at Beth. “And he's almost fucking 30, the fuck, Ma?”

Eleanor flaps her hand at him, biting into another cracker. “I ain't talking about anything _dirty_ , just... to push him along. It's all men like him need, a pretty young thing. And Bethy's the prettiest, ain't she?” Eleanor tugs on the end of Beth's ponytail. Beth giggles, but it's all teeth. Eleanor looks at Daryl, flapping the hair at him, getting crumbs in it. “Don't she have the prettiest hair?”

“S'fine,” Daryl mumbles, scowling and looking out the window.

“Bet she gets it cut pretty often too.”

Daryl looks back at his ma's pointed tone, rolling his eyes. “Ma.”

“You promised you'd cut it before the wedding, Daryl,” she says, putting her hands on her hips, “and I don't forget promises. How you even see through that thing, I do not know.”

“I ain't paying for no fucking haircut,” Daryl mutters, crossing his arms. Beth's eyes are laughing at him. He feels his flush deepen.

“Why don't you have Bethy do it?” a masculine voice says from behind Daryl. “She always used to cut Maggie's.”

Daryl freezes as he watches the two women's eyes turn to the doorway, both glowing with their own happy light.

“Hey, Daddy,” Beth says, jumping up. Daryl hears the light smack from behind him as she kisses her father's cheek. “And you don't want me cutting your hair, Daryl,” she says to the back of his head. “Last time I did Maggie I gave her a bald spot.”

Hershel Greene chuckles, genial and deep. “I'm sure you've improved since then.”

Daryl looks up as Beth comes back into view. Her gaze catches his as she goes to plop into her seat. She gives him an encouraging nod.

Swallowing, Daryl stands.

He sees immediately where Beth gets her steady, considering stare. He feels the whole weight of its parent directed at him now.

He doesn't look Daryl up and down, but it almost feels like he does; like in this one look he's summed up all he needs to know about Daryl. Not to judge him, maybe; but to talk to him in a way he understands.

“Hello, Daryl,” Hershel Greene says warmly. He holds out a hand, sturdy and callused from long years on the farm. Daryl takes it, remembering what Merle told him about meeting mob bosses—look 'em straight in the eye, shake 'em like you're smacking a titty—and when he pulls away Daryl's glad, at least, that he doesn't wipe his hand on his pants.

“Hey,” Daryl says, sticking his hands in his pockets and bowing his shoulders. Silence stretches for several moments, and Daryl realizes he's supposed to say something. “You, uh, got a nice place.”

Daryl can almost hear Beth rolling her eyes from behind him—can hear his ma, at that—but Hershel Greene doesn't bat an eye. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. He chuckles. “Should have seen this place before Annette—Beth's mother, my late wife—fixed it up. Might as well have lived in the barn.”

“But it's such a nice barn, dear.”

Daryl's eyes snap to his ma. He's heard this tone of voice before, when she talks to Hershel on the phone: sickly sweet and simpering, a vocal swoon. But it doesn't prepare him for what it sounds like when she's with him in the flesh. It doesn't sound trite, now; not corny or embarrassing, or anything else he's felt about it. It feels whole. It feels happy. And she's looking at Hershel in a way that makes the way she used to look at Daryl's pop a parody: like what used to be was only a pale wisp of a thing, the clouds before they gather into a thunderstorm. Except this isn't a storm, not at all; this is something bright, pure, gleaming. Something that warms the already cozy kitchen, sets it alight, bathes them all in its glow.

Daryl realizes that all the changes he's seen in his ma have been nothing compared to what's really happened to her. She didn't just lose the drink, gain a man; with Hershel's hands beside hers on the shears, she cut away all the thorns and glowering woods that Will Dixon left behind. She doesn't need Daryl to prop her up anymore. She's there, looking at Hershel Greene with the world in her eyes, standing on her own.

“Uh—“ Daryl says, interrupting whatever Hershel had been saying. Daryl flushes as three pairs of eyes turn to him. He glances towards Beth. “Uh, I ought'a go.”

“So soon?” his ma says, sticking out her lower lip.

Daryl wavers, then glances at Beth again and swallows.

“Yeah. Got work this afternoon,” he lies. “Gotta go change.”

“Shame,” Hershel says. He even sounds like he means it. “You'll be back soon, though, won't you?”

“Come on Wednesday,” his ma says, walking over to slide under Hershel's arm. She gazes at him, and he looks down affectionately, gives her a squeeze. “Wednesday is spaghetti night. Hershel makes the best spaghetti this side'a the Mason Dixon.”

Daryl makes a noncommittal noise. He's not sure if he's been dismissed yet, so he stands a moment, rocking on his feet, watching his ma and the man she loves.

Beth springs to her feet, chair scraping back. “I'll walk you out.”

“A'right,” Daryl says quickly. He takes a step, then doubles back to push his chair in.

“It was good to meet you, Daryl,” Hershel says.

Daryl nods, and follows Beth out the door.

He can't help the deep, heaving breath he takes when he reaches the porch, not even waiting for the door to swing closed behind him before he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to calm his heartbeat.

When he opens them, he finds Beth looking at him, a little concerned.

“You ok?”

He clears his throat. “Yeah, just, uh. Air's nice.”

She blinks at him, and smiles.

“Yeah. It is.” Beth links her hands in front of her, rocking a little back to front. “So,” she says, extending the syllable until her lips purse like she's about to whistle, “Guess we won't be seeing you Wednesday, huh?”

Daryl flushes, but doesn’t look away.

Her eyes are still gentle. Not an ounce of judgement. Like it's just a fact that Daryl will not and probably never will be around for spaghetti Wednesday.

“Nah,” he says. “Probably not.”

“Ok.” Beth pauses. She eyes him suddenly, like she's got something up her sleeve. Daryl fights not to take a step back. “Would you be interested in a birthday party, though?”

Daryl frowns. “Birthday party?”

“I'm turning seventeen next week,” Beth says. Her look turns into a glare almost, like she expects him to make a joke at her expense. He can't imagine what it would be. “It'll just be a little thing. Dinner and a movie in, maybe. Told you, I don't have many friends.” She bares her teeth for a moment, then covers them, looking down. She peeks up at him, biting her lip, and he realizes how nervous she really is. “But I'd like you to be there. If you want.”

“Why the fuck you want me?”

And like that, Beth's nerves seem to flow from her like a tributary from the sea. Her eyes are bright, and lighter, again, in the sun.

“Cause I do. You got a problem with that, Dixon?”

She doesn't sound aggressive, but he still feels the force of her words—the weight of will behind them; daring him to resist, brooking no argument if he does. He might be able to defy his ma's wishes, but he suddenly realizes that Beth Greene could ask him to curl up at the foot of her bed like a dog, and all he'd be able to do is grumble.

He finds himself strangely, perturbingly, somewhat ok with that.

“A'right,” he mutters, trying not to flush at how her face jumps in happiness. “If I don't got work,” he says quickly, stepping back, worried that she'll try to hug him.

She doesn't though; hugs herself instead, grinning like he's given her a fistful of diamonds. “Great,” she says. “I'll text you the details?”

“Yeah,” Daryl says.

“Great,” Beth says again. He realizes she's blushing. She sees him realize she's blushing, and blushes harder. After an awkward pause, she nods, jerky, and walks back inside.

Daryl waits until he hears her footsteps fade away on the hardwood before closing his eyes again. He sucks a breath in, and breathes it out slowly.

 _Dammit, Dixon,_ he thinks as he walks in a daze towards his truck. _What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?_


	4. You're So Much Sweeter, Goodness Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl's faced all kinds of hell in his life, and he doesn't think any of it has prepared him for a 17-year-old girl's birthday party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send lots of tissues and good vibes to Mary <3

Daryl will admit that he feels a little bit crazy, sat in his truck in the shadows, watching car by car roll into the drive while he pulls in smoke like a vacuum cleaner. He's dressed as nicely as he knows how: a black button-up (with sleeves), jeans with only a few grease stains, torn around the knees but in good condition everywhere else. It's appropriate, isn't it? It's what people wear to events like these. People. Real people. People who aren't Dixons, who aren't men going on middle age, about to stroll into a 17-year-old's birthday party.

Hershel's truck is missing, which means either he or his ma is out, probably both, the way they're attached at the hip. Daryl squints through the cloud of smoke shrouding his head, rolls the cig between his fingers. Cigarettes usually soothe him, but he still feels his heart going a mile a minute. He's well on his way to a tension headache. He hasn't even walked in the door. Christ.

He almost asked Aaron for advice. Almost. He knows he has a cousin around Beth's age; is sure he's been around her and her friends, knows what they talk about, what it's like to share space with a gaggle of teenagers.

Daryl'd been a few steps from the office door before he convinced himself to turn around and leave. It's not that he thinks Aaron would laugh at him, for his predicament or for his nerves. Aaron ain't like that, and it's one of the reasons why Daryl considered asking him at all. No, Aaron wouldn't laugh.

There ain't nothing wrong with Aaron, but there's everything wrong with the question. Daryl could ask Aaron about his cousin, but it feels weird equating these two occasions; like Aaron's cousin and Beth Greene shouldn't be mentioned in the same sentence together; like despite their ages there's nothing similar about them at all.

 _Bullshit, 's what it is,_ Daryl thinks, exhaling roughly and rolling the window down to let the smoke escape. He knows he'll walk in there smelling like a chimney, but he honestly couldn't give a shit. Might keep the pipsqueaks away from him. Not Beth, though. She didn't seem to mind his smoking, the night he picked her up from the party. Had seemed a little bit enthralled by it, the way she stared at the cigarette dangling from his lip. He's found himself thinking about that night more and more and he doesn't know why or how to stop. Or even why he should want to stop. Ain't nothing wrong with thinking about things. Things that've happened. Nights when he's stepped outside of himself, drove through the night and seen a girl cry. Cared that she's crying. Found a way to make her stop. Laughed like he's never laughed, not sober, not in all his 35 years.

_You're a wild man, Daryl Dixon._

He wishes he weren't sober for this. He wishes this weren't the house of two recovering alcoholics, so he wouldn't feel too guilty to sneak a flask in. He wishes a whole fuck of a lot of things and it's making his head throb more and more.

It's been about 20 minutes since the last car arrived when he decides he can't put this off any longer. Taking one final drag, he stubs out the cig in the ashtray Merle swiped from a job interview in his teens (probably the last interview he ever went to, if Daryl's being honest about it). As he swings out of the truck, boots hitting the dirt with a satisfying thump, he has a sudden stab of wondering where Merle is. Wonders what he'd think, of all this. What he'd think of Beth Greene.

He remembers what Merle tends to think about women, and decides he'd rather not know.

Daryl mounts the porch steps and walks slowly to the door, taking a moment to notice the sounds coming from inside. They must all be in the living room; he can hear the quiet bass of some sort of pop music, the gentle thrum of voices; a high pitched laugh rings out and he nearly turns around right then and there.

But then he remembers Beth's face when she asked him to this thing. Her softly blushing cheeks, the nervous smile as she said she doesn't have many friends. He remembers the way his heart thumped at that; that somehow she counts him among them. Either she likes people easily and it's just other people don't like her (which he frankly discounts right off), or... or there's something about him she likes. And the cynical part of him tries to whisper that it's his image; he learned long ago that he's something the right kind of teenage girl likes the look of. Merle'd given him hell his whole life for not taking advantage of that; hints in his head that maybe now's the time to start. But the larger part of him—the part that shuddered a bit under her tears, that tossed her that crowbar—doesn't think that's the case. Doesn't think she's that kind of shallow; and even if she is, that isn't all of it. Cause girls might like the look of him but they sure as hell don't like the rest of it. He makes sure of that. He tried to make sure of that with her too. But she didn't let it take. She asked him here, and like he didn't want to ask Aaron about his cousin, he doesn't think it's out of filial affection.

And here he'd gone a good few minutes forgetting their impending relation. He rolls his eyes and curses under his breath, wonders if he'll ever get out of this fucking rabbit hole.

The same grating laugh rises behind the door, and Daryl grits his teeth. He's sick of feeling like a damn pussy.

He pats nervously at the parcel in his pocket. He cracks his neck. He knocks on the door.

There's no break in the sound from inside, but after a moment he hears the rapid thump of footsteps coming closer, and before he's fully prepared the door is flung open the door and there she is.

His first thought is how sweet she looks; cheeks a little peaked, the color drawn out by the soft pink of her cardigan and the white tank beneath. She's wearing socks covered in penguins and when she sees it's him her smile widens in a way that makes him feel a little breathless.

“Daryl! You came!” she says, grinning like it's the best damn gift she's gotten all day, and Daryl doesn't quite know what to do. Wishes he had taken more time to prepare, maybe rewatched _Sixteen Candles,_ memorized the dialogue or something. He finds there's no script anywhere in his mind that could have prepared him for this.

But she's still smiling at him, face soft and warm, and the way her eyes brighten makes the short nod he gives seems to be enough.

She jerks her head towards the living room. “C'mon, lemme introduce you.”

And then Daryl feels terrified all over again. Because yeah, he understood in some vague way that a party meant people, and a teenager's party means teenage people. Are those even people? Daryl doesn't know but his breath is coming short and he's suddenly worried he'll throw up before the night is through, booze or not.

He feels a warm pressure on his hand and he looks down and she's reached out to touch him. Her hold is light, non-restrictive; he figures he could break out of any hold she got him in, but the way she's touching him tells him she wouldn't mind if he does. He looks at her hand then up her arm to her warm blue eyes and he feels a bit of his anxiety shudder and settle on the floor of his chest.

He nods again, and, flushing at her smile, follows her inside.

He'd seen all these people arriving, of course; had already counted them, figured as much as he could from afar. There's two girls and one boy; as he enters his eyes fly to the girl in the middle of another irritating laugh, a tiny thing with curly brown hair bigger than her head. The other one looks like she could be Beth's sister, blonde and skinny, if a bit more solemn. The boy's face is so forgettable Daryl's eyes slide right off him until he notices the weird look he's giving Beth's hand around Daryl's; then Daryl very much does focus on him, narrowing his eyes until the boy looks up and gulps, sinking a little deeper into the armchair he's sitting in.

“Hey, y'all,” Beth says brightly, strangely breathless. All eyes in the room are on him now as he comes to an awkward stop at Beth's side. “This is Daryl. I told you he was coming, yeah?”

The blonde nods and the boy continues to look a little scared. The brunette eyes him up and down in a way that has his skin crawling. He's suddenly very glad he decided to wear sleeves.

Beth makes quick introductions: Amy and Diane she knows from cheerleading in middle school. Jimmy's been a family friend since childhood, she says, looking at him fondly; a bit like you'd look at an aging pet, Daryl thinks. Jimmy looks like he wants to add something to that, but doesn't seem entirely comfortable speaking in Daryl's presence.

Diane, the brunette, has no such compunction.

“So,” she says as Beth leads him to a cushion she's laid out in front of the couch, settling beside him, “you're the brother, huh?”

Daryl bites back an angry denial, settling for a grunt.

“Daddy's marrying his mama, yeah,” Beth says, crossing her legs in front of her and leaning back on the couch. “Got another brother too, but I haven't met him yet.”

 _Don't count on it any time soon,_ Daryl thinks, annoyed at the reminder of Merle's existence.

“He look like you?” Diane asks.

There's a few moments of silence, and Daryl realizes he's expected to speak. “Not really,” he mutters.

“Glad we're meeting you, then.”

“You want anything to drink, Daryl?” Beth says, surprising him with how loud she is. “Got lemonade, water, Coke—“

“M'fine,” he says. He doesn't want her to leave him alone in the room with her friends. He feels like he'd spiral into a real panic attack without her there.

The novelty of his arrival soon wears off, and they return to whatever they were chatting about before. Well, what Diane was talking about; the others mostly make affirming noises as she prattles on about some sort of directions. He doesn't much care where they're planning to go, but Beth and Amy seem engaged in what she's talking about; Jimmy looks like he's heard it a million times before and feels just as put out as Daryl does. He spends the conversation shooting glances at Beth; Daryl makes sure to meet his eyes whenever Jimmy looks his way, and the boy avoids his gaze nicely after that.

It's just beginning to get dark when a timer goes off in the kitchen, and Beth leaps to her feet. Daryl trails behind the others as they follow her. They settle at the kitchen table as Beth fusses with the oven, emerging with a gigantic baked ziti that makes Daryl realize he hasn't eaten since a piece of burnt toast when he woke up. It isn't like he ever ate all that well, or adventurously, but he's definitely gotten lazier since Ma moved out; no matter the context, though, he doesn't think he's ever eaten anything as mouthwatering as this.

They all tuck in and the discussion continues. They've moved on to school stuff; complaining about the lunch room, evil teachers. Amy goes on for a good five minutes about a Mr. Gordon, seems to have it out for her; won't give her above an 85 on her papers, even the ones she spent over a day on. Diane loudly suggests doing him a “favor,” to which everyone except Daryl blushes. It doesn't make him feel old, exactly, that such talk doesn't bother him; more like, he'd been hearing the same kind of thing since he first learned how to understand language. He'd seen his pop screaming at his ma, about the “favors” he claimed she gave the clerk at the liquor store; Daryl walked in once on him getting one himself while his ma lay passed out on the bed a few feet away.

No, Daryl doesn't mind Diane saying stuff like that; feels a little amused at how scandalized they all are at the suggestion, when he knows for a fact that that kind of thing went on at his high school all the time. It weren't for no 85's though; and as the discussion goes on, he feels his cheeks growing warmer and warmer as he picks at his food, stomach rolling a little. He thinks, about little people and their little lives; about how getting an 85 would have been a miracle for Daryl, would have been one of the best days of his young life.

He vaguely remembers the first few years of grade school—before Ma burned the house, before Merle left—when teachers would smile when they saw him, talk to him like any other little boy, despite his somewhat dilapidated clothing, the stale crackers or Starburst he brought for lunch. But after the house, after Merle—as his daddy got meaner and meaner and his ma got so far gone beating her wasn't that much fun anymore—Daryl realized how dumb he really was. Is sure he would have realized it eventually anyway, as he got older and school got harder; being able to match pictures of farm animals to their names in Spanish just wasn't so impressive anymore.

He remembers numbers swirling on the page, red marks slashed through his half-finished essays, Merle coming home once in a blue moon and laughing at Daryl slumped over the history book he swiped from the library—cause who was Daryl fooling? No one in his family had ever gone to college; his ma had a brother somewhere who finished high school, but he overdosed by the time he was 25. There wasn't anything in school for people like him, no matter how much he enjoyed learning about the World Wars or the scientific names for the plants he saw in the woods everyday. Even it was meant for him, even if the teachers cared instead of writing him off like the trash he was, he was just too stupid. And eventually the thought of trying and failing got worse than the shame of not trying at all.

He looks up from his mashed-up food and sees Beth watching him. They're sat directly across the table from each other and she holds his gaze, a knit between her brow. As he watches she ducks her chin, mouths, _“You ok?”_ through sauce-stained lips. She has a drop of tomato sauce on the very tip of her nose and it makes Daryl wish she were next to him, so he could wipe it off. Nevertheless it makes his lips twitch a little, at how cute she is, how oblivious; and when he gives her a nod he isn't entirely lying.

When she shoots him her own small smile and looks back to Diane he decides to stop thinking about being sorry for himself and start thinking about her. It is her day, after all, and he finds that he likes thinking about her when she's in front of him even more than when she's not.

Like the last time they were in the kitchen together, the sunlight weaves through her hair like wool into a tapestry. It hits Amy's head the same way, but doesn't have the same effect, the same glow; they could be sisters but Daryl would hardly care, after seeing Beth.

And as he turns his attention to her he wonders whether he should be asking after her state of mind too. Because she doesn't look like Diane, animated and chatty and gesticulating like she's trying to punch people out; doesn't look like Amy or Jimmy, engaged in the conversation, relishing their food, not as exuberant but still at ease, enjoying themselves.

Beth doesn't look at ease, not even in her own kitchen. She looks distant. She looks tired. When her friends direct their words towards her she smiles and replies; but the moment they look away her smile slips, her shoulders slump; every few minutes she glances at the clock on the wall, like she'd rather be anywhere but here. And it makes something in Daryl's chest ache a little, that he could be sad and she could be sad and there's nothing either of them can do about it except look at each other from across a kitchen table.

Eventually they finish their food and the guests pile back into the living room; Daryl waits until they pass and then he and Beth are alone in the kitchen. She glances at him before picking up her plate and the two on either side of hers; Daryl takes up Diane's and his own wreck of a meal, but pauses as Beth turns to the sink. He watches her slim back as she turns on the tap; watches her shoulders rise and fall as she scrapes the worst of the leftovers into the trash, tilts the plates one by one beneath the water. He feels all of a sudden that their ages are not so far apart at all.

“I can do that,” Daryl says before he realizes he's decided to. Beth's movements pause, but she doesn't turn around. “Go on with your friends.”

Her movements resume and she shakes her head. “That's ok,” she says, voice barely raised above the running water. “You relax. You're a guest.”

“It's your party.”

“Yeah, and you're a _guest._ ” She does turn a bit now, looking at him over her shoulder with a playful smile, a little of the usual light in her eyes. He still sees the slump of her shoulders, though, the way her eyes tilt. She turns back to the sink and Daryl swallows, walking across the kitchen on quiet feet. She jumps a little when the scrape of his knife on his plate startles her, and he pauses apologetically before her lips twitch, rueful, and he continues.

He doesn't think she was planning to finish the washing at this time, but now that he's here she seems content to see it through. After his plate is cleared (Diane had all but eaten the varnish off the plastic), he stands next to her at the double sink, shoulder to shoulder, scrubbing one plate as she rinses another. He follows her pace, which is slow, almost lethargic, but he doesn't mind; he doesn't feel any compunction to join the voices drifting in from the living room, and he doesn't think she does either. He feels a sort of peace spread through him, washing dishes with Beth Greene.

He's so lulled that it takes him a few minutes to realize she's humming under her breath; a few seconds after he notices, she opens her mouth and starts singing.

It's quiet, and absent-minded, and he doesn't think she even realizes she's doing it. She skips every few words like it doesn't enter her mind to perform for him. She sings, and it just is; like something she's proud to let into the world, like it's something too rich to remain inside of her, too generous. Like it's something she was made for.

Daryl doesn't think he's heard anything so beautiful in his life.

He gets so lost in the sound of her that when her voice peters away he blinks a few times, startled by his presence in this so ordinary a kitchen, standing on two feet and not floating in the air. He looks down at Beth and sees her pace has slowed even more, to barely more than a crawl, tilting the plate this way and that, watching the water run across the plastic. She doesn't seem lost as Daryl had been, though; by the scrunch of her brow he thinks she must be thinking very hard about something.

Diane gives a shriek from the living room and they both jump, Beth's eyes darting to his, startled. There's a pause, and then she giggles; Daryl surprises himself with a chuckle of his own.

“Girl sure has enthusiasm,” Daryl says.

“Yeah.” Beth ducks her head. “It's nice to have a friend like her. Someone who talks enough that you don't have to, you know?”

Daryl thinks about Merle, and nods. He does know.

Beth is quiet for a few more minutes, and he's about to mention how long she's been washing this particular plate when she says, quite suddenly, “I'm sorry.”

Daryl blinks. “For what?”

“For inviting you tonight.” Daryl's hands freeze, and she looks up at him, eyes wide. “No, not like that, of course not like that! I just mean—I should have realized how uncomfortable you'd be.”

“I ain't uncomfortable,” Daryl mutters. He doesn't even try to look abashed when she raises her eyebrow at him.

“I have eyes you know,” she teases lightly. She sobers quickly, looking at her hands. “And, you know. I just should have realized. Guy like you wouldn't want anything to do with a kid–, a bunch of kids.”

Daryl's brow furrows. “A guy like me?”

He's shocked to see Beth's cheeks color a little. “You know... cool. A cool guy.”

Daryl snorts. “You think I'm _cool?”_

“Shut up,” Beth mutters.

Daryl looks at her embarrassment and finds himself shockingly close to a grin. “Never had no one call me _cool_ before.”

“Really?” She looks so skeptical that Daryl feels the laughter bubbling in his chest turn a little hysterical.

“Really.” Daryl looks down at his sudsy hands, still smirking. “The truck and the leather, huh? That's what y'all find cool these days?”

“Not just that,” she says. Daryl glances at her out of the corner of his eye, silently asking her to continue. She shrugs. “I always get the sense that you see everything. But you're so quiet about it, you never use it against people or anything. You just know stuff. That's _cool._ ”

 _That's survival,_ Daryl thinks, but doesn't say. What could he say, when the reason why he observes is so he won't get his eyes knocked out of his skull when he _isn't_ looking? How could a girl like her understand that?

But the way she's looking at him—the way she knew he was uncomfortable, the way she caught his gaze across the table like they were sitting only inches apart, like for all that space between them they could think the same thoughts just through the brush of a look—he thinks that she sees things too. And she'd never use that to hurt people. He doesn't think she'd even know how, where to begin.

She's cool, Daryl thinks. She's the coolest girl he's ever met.

“You ain't a kid, you know,” he says.

It's her turn to furrow her brow. “Huh?”

“When you said I wouldn't want anything to do with a kid—they might be kids. But you ain't.”

And then the world does that thing where it goes real quiet. Fades away, softens at the edges, peters towards stasis like the universe itself is coming to a close. He feels like he should blush at the way she's staring at him, but he doesn't; just stares back, his hands deep in soapy water, letting her find whatever she needs to find when she looks at him like this.

A blush slowly builds on her own cheeks, and she looks away, finally placing the plate she'd been working in the rack. She puts her hands one over the other on the edge of the sink. He realizes that she didn't take her bracelets off when she began the washing; there are suds caught between the beads, and the water on them makes the plastic sparkle.

He's staring so hard at her wrist it takes him a moment to realize she's started speaking again.

“It's weird, isn't it,” she says quietly. “This whole brother/sister thing.” She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, biting her lip. “I don't really feel like your sister.”

Daryl feels like there's something else behind that statement—something he, with a little more evolution, would be able to understand. But for now he sees the surface of it, and that he does understand.

“Don't feel like your brother,” he says gruffly.

Beth stares at him a few moments more, then nods, almost to herself. “Yeah.” She looks sad, suddenly, unaccountably sad, and Daryl's heart clenches. “I miss my brother,” she says. “I miss my mom. Especially today.” She sighs. “I guess I just thought... you know what that feels like. Some of it, anyway. And no one else in there has ever...” Beth glances at him, and sniffs, wiggles her shoulders and gives a watery laugh. “I guess I just wanted to know you. Not as a brother. As Daryl.”

Daryl wants, suddenly, to nudge her shoulder with his; to step closer and feel the plush of her sweater through his shirt. He doesn’t, of course. But he wants to.

“And?”

Beth glances up at him, a small smile tugging on her mouth. “And I like him. I like him a lot.”

Daryl bites the inside of his mouth, debating... but in the end her eyes, their softness, answers the question for him.

Wiping his hands off on his jeans, Daryl reaches into his pocket and pulls out the parcel, little more than a wad of newspaper kept together with painter's tape, shoving it wordlessly towards her. She looks him a question, then dries her own hands on a dishtowel and takes it, touch almost dainty.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

She looks at him again, then unwraps it, slow. He wishes suddenly that she would hurry it up—wishes he'd left it in the pile of other presents so he didn't have to be here when she opened it; he wishes, wishes—

And then the newspaper is falling away and she's holding it in her hand.

“I know it ain't much,” he says into the silence. “But you said you liked the other one, and I'm shit at shopping for people, so...”

Beth turns the wooden bird over in her hand. It had seemed small to Daryl—the details had been a bitch to carve, at least—but it fits her palm perfectly. He'd chosen the wood because he knew it was good for carving, sturdy and fine-grained, but now he realizes how nice the pitch looks against her skin-tone, how lifelike it seems as she runs her fingertips across the beak, the small, lidded eyes. He'd begun it shortly after he met her—not with any thought of her, it was just something to keep his hands busy over lunch breaks, when his pirated cable went out—but before long it took something of the shape of her in his head. And when he heard her sing, he realized at last why he'd carved it with the beak open.

“Daryl, it's...” Her mouth opens and closes several times, like there are words, somewhere, like she's reaching for them, like they can't quite be grasped—and when she looks at him Daryl wonders if he's made a horrible mistake. “Daryl...”

“Beth! Where the heck are you!? We want cake!”

They leap apart, although they hadn't been standing all that close, although the shout had sounded from the living room with no sense of coming closer. Daryl takes the moment to clear his throat, wipe his nose and stick his hands in his pockets.

“I, uh, I ought'a get going.”

“Daryl...”

“Got work tomorrow, early, you know...” He trails off, not quite meeting her eyes, not quite avoiding them. She's still staring at him with that unfathomable look, like she's holding more than a carved bird in her hands.

“...ok,” she says. Almost like she's hurt, but he doesn't want to think about that. He nods instead, looks at the bird in her tiny hands; and with an aborted little grunt, walks out the door.

He manages to make it outside without any of the squirts asking where he's going, a fact he's fucking glad of; if they spoke to him, he doesn't even know what he'd say. Where to begin. Where to go, when his sister/not sister had held something he'd made with his own hands, looking at him like _that._

He doesn't leave immediately when he gets in his truck. He sits in the dark. He smokes one cigarette, then another. He sees Hershel's car pull in, sees Hershel and his ma get out. Sees the teenagers wander away some time later. Watches through the haze of smoke as that familiar light goes on upstairs; watches it, minutes later, flicker out.

He reaches for another cigarette, and realizes he's finished the pack. He breathes out slowly through his nose; considers rolling up the windows to get as much of that second-hand as he can.

He doesn't though; lets the wind wind through the car, sifting through the smoke and pulling it away until all he can smell is air.

He looks at the dark window. He breathes in that air. He rolls up the windows and drives slowly home.


	5. Recursion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the way to dinner at the Greenes', Daryl's thoughts are spiraling so quickly he's going dizzy with them. Half of him is elated; half is terrified; he doesn't know which half to listen to.
> 
> He should know. Things never do work out for him, do they.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some violent ideations.

“Hey man, I'm heading out.”

Aaron looks up from the ledgers he's hunched over, squinting at Daryl a moment before he remembers to push his reading glasses up his forehead.

Aaron's been working at this garage since he was in high school—not as long as it would have been for Daryl, but still a long time. He never gets tired of the place, though, and he’s never thought seriously of moving on, either. Daryl'd call it lacking ambition, Aaron would call it being comfortable; but whatever it is that keeps Aaron here, it also keeps Daryl in a job. Just as inexplicable as Aaron's attachment to the garage is Aaron's attachment to Daryl. After Merle went to jail for the first time (real jail, not the juvie shit he'd been in and out of since he learned how to use his pockets), Daryl'd realized how ardently he needed to go straight—and also how late it was to do so. A high school drop-out—clean rap sheet, but not an ounce of professional experience, not a moment of holding a steady job—it was no wonder the first dozen places he went did all but spit in his eye and boot him back across the threshold. He didn't expect much more coming here. But something in Aaron's icky-sticky heart had cottoned on to Daryl; after only minutes of talking to him, he'd hired him on the spot, and Daryl has been here ever since.

It doesn't pay great, but it pays, and that's all he can ask for. It lets him keep his apartment. It supported his ma, before her recovery and after; it keeps assholes like Sheriff Walsh off his tail when the department's got a quota to fill.

It also gives him his only real friend; a friend preparing to ask the daily question:

“Wanna grab a drink?”

To which Daryl, as always, responds:

“Nah.”

But this time, there's more.

“Got a dinner,” he says.

Aaron raises his eyebrows, sitting back and threading his hands together in his lap. “Do you.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says, trying not to make anything of it, the fact that he has an excuse for once. Aaron would say this is more than an excuse, it's an _engagement_ ; but Daryl didn't ask him anyway.

“Who with?”

“Hershel's other kid is in from Atlanta,” Daryl says. He hasn't told Aaron much about the Greenes—Aaron, true to form, hasn't asked—but knowing Aaron, Daryl's sure he's figured out plenty on his own. If not the specifics, he's figured out something. The way he's looking at Daryl now—eyebrows still raised, calm eyes knowing—Daryl wonders if he knows exactly how Daryl's bones thrum to return to that farm, just as equally as they shiver and fight to turn away. He wonders a lot about what goes on in Aaron's head. Why he cares, for one. Why he hired Daryl in the first place. What he'd think, if Daryl told him what he's actually feeling.

Not like Daryl's all that good at explaining it to himself.

“Sounds exciting,” Aaron says. “They all going to be there?”

“Yeah,” Daryl says, trying with all his might to stay casual. “Just gotta go home and change.”

“And shower for once?”

“Shut up,” Daryl mutters. It's without venom, though, and Aaron knows it; he's smiling at Daryl now, almost like he's proud.

“This should be good for you,” he says.

“What, talkin' to people?”

“Being with family. It's something you have to practice, but it sounds like these people are worth it.”

Daryl bites at his thumbnail, leaning on the doorframe and looking at his feet. “I guess,” he mutters.

“I mean it,” Aaron says. “Give it a chance. Maybe one day you'll even think I'm good enough to meet them.”

Daryl smirks. “Not a chance.”

“Thought not.” Aaron sits forward, pulling his glasses back down. “I'll be here a few more hours. Remember you got the early shift tomorrow.”

Daryl nods, says goodnight, and leaves.

45 minutes later, freshly showered and back in his formal clothing (black button-up, sleeves, semi-passable jeans), Daryl drives down the freeway, smoking easily out the window as he lets his mind wander. It's strange to admit that he does think about it sometimes, introducing Aaron to the Greenes. His ma has met him, after all, and Merle—although once they found out about Eric neither wanted much more to do with him. He does wonder, though, if the Greenes would have the same reaction. If Beth...

Beth wouldn't. She would love Aaron. She loves everyone, the silly girl.

Daryl feels those odd sort of flutters in his gut, the ones he's gotten used to when he thinks about Beth Greene. Ever since that night at her birthday party, standing in the kitchen together—probably the most intimate space they could have shared, save her bedroom—he's been thinking about her more and more. Not the way he thought about her after the car, or their later conversation at the kitchen table. Then he thought about moments: the way her lips stretched across her teeth as she screamed into the night, the pen-marks that had made their way onto her fingertips. Now it's more like—he thinks about her. Just her. Thinks about what she's doing, who she's with—hopes Diane isn't too grating, hopes Jimmy keeps his hands to himself (Beth didn't say anything, but Daryl knows there's a history there—maybe he'll ask her tonight)—thinks about what she'd think about what he's doing.

Not that there's all that much to think about—go to the garage, go to the store, heat up a Lean Cuisine and watch Wheel of Fortune until he drags himself to the bedroom—but he still wonders. What she'd think about it. What she'd add, if she did it with him.

It's as if the acknowledgement— _don't feel like your brother_ —has broken something open inside him, let all these feelings (and obsessions, he thinks sometimes, obsessions) have free reign, dance around his stomach like strippers round a pole until he's gone dizzy trying to keep track of them. There's nothing _strange_ about it, he doesn't think—she doesn't feel like a sister, and she doesn't feel like a friend like Aaron feels like a friend—but people have plenty of different kinds of friends. Daryl's a little late in discovering them, is all. Beth Greene is just one of the many friends he's missed.

The one reservation he has is that bird. That damn bird. He didn't realize, until he gave it to her, exactly what it meant, what it could mean if she were aware of it; that the metal owl she'd so admired had been made by a bitter old man before the bitter, before the blood and the beatings and the resentments a marathon long. That there's nothing to like about the thing bound his ma to him like the tin were the iron of a ball and chain.

But maybe she did know something about it, Daryl thinks, exhaling uneasily. Maybe she'd asked his ma about that owl. Maybe she told her how many knees Will Dixon had been on when he gave it to her. Maybe she told her it had been presented in lieu of a ring.

Regardless. Regardless, that's not what Daryl meant by it, and Beth would have known that. He gave it to her because he's broke as fuck and it didn't cost nothing; he had it anyway, why not give it to her, right? It was her birthday. Pretty girl deserves something she thinks is pretty.

And it's ok to think she's pretty. It's ok. He thinks Aaron is good looking, maybe more than good looking. Ain't nothing wrong with that. It's an empirical fact, like the sky is blue and the grass is green and Daryl's blood is as Dixon as his name. Beth Greene is a pretty girl.

Anyone'd agree, wouldn't they?

And now he's rolling up to the Greene farm, parking his truck beside an unfamiliar Honda, and look at that—he's come this whole way without worrying about the other Greene girl. A whole ride without wondering how like her sister she is, how different; if she'll like him in the same unfathomable way that Beth does, or distrust him like she ought to. Wonders if she'll think there's something wrong in the way he looks at Beth.

It doesn't matter, though. It doesn't matter. A few hours and he'll be out of here, back home with the tail-end of Wheel of Fortune and a big empty bed to fall into. It will be ok. He's gotten better at telling himself that lately; might as well take advantage of it, right?

He knocks on the door.

His anxiety begins to tick up a bit as he waits, straining, again, to pick up sounds from inside. It's not nearly as loud as it was at the party—of course, there's no Diane—but he can pick up the low hum of voices, safe, comfortable with each other. He thinks about what Aaron told him—how he needs a family, how he needs practice to need it—and finds all the ease he'd felt on the drive over has evaporated. He isn't ready. He isn't ready at all. His ma might be all integrated here, home and happy; but he's a Dixon. He's a Dixon, and Dixon's aren't made for families. Junkyard birds are as good as they get.

Even the image of Beth Greene at the door—pretty, pretty Beth, hair in a ponytail over a loose peasant blouse and comfortable jeans—doesn't do nothing to change that.

Neither does the unease in the smile she gives him.

Neither does the way she holds her body taut, turned away from him.

He fucked up. He fucked up _bad._

It's only a moment, though, and then she's her usual, loose, happy self, grinning up at him without a care in the world.

“Hey you,” she says, stepping aside to let him enter—leaning back, he notices, so he doesn't brush against her, and fuck why did he do it—and then closing the door, the turning lock loud as a prison gate in his ears. “How've you been?” she asks.

“A'right,” Daryl grunts, shrugging off his jacket and passing it into her waiting arms. “You?”

“Real good.” When she turns back from the closet, she's grinning. “Diane gave me a boxset of _The Nanny_ for my birthday. It was only the first season but I can't stop watching it.” She tilts her head at him. “You should see it with me sometime. I think you'd like it.” She doesn't wait for his reply before starting towards the living room. “C'mon and meet Maggie.”

He stands for a moment alone in the foyer, almost sighing in relief at the familiarity of the bad mood that settles around his shoulder.

 _Good to be home,_ he thinks, and follows Beth through.

By 'Maggie,' Beth seems to mean Maggie plus one—she's sitting nearly in the lap of a guy must be her boyfriend, looks at Daryl with a bit of a gulp when Daryl fills the doorway. Then his ma's distracting him with a wave and Hershel with a handshake and Maggie's in front of him, several inches taller than her sister, just about Daryl's height, arms folded and _you fuck my family I fuck you back_ expression firmly planted on her face.

Of course, like Beth, she's good at hiding her negative emotions, and by the time Daryl blinks she's smiling a smile just as blinding as her sister's, offering a hand for a shake. “Hey Daryl, I'm Maggie; good to meet you.”

“You too,” Daryl mumbles, wiping his sweaty palm off on his jeans (a movement he sees her narrow her eyes at) before greeting Glenn. His nerves make Daryl's own settle a bit—it's good to know there's one person in this room doesn't have one up on him.

“Hey, you work that garage near Morrison's, don't you?”

Daryl raises his eyebrows. “Maybe. Why?”

“I broke down out there once,” Glenn says. “It was like two in the morning and I could barely get the car down to the road. Couldn't believe there was still a light on that late.”

Daryl narrows his eyes. “You the kid smelled like pizza?”

“Yeah! I was delivering them!” Glenn seems somewhat more comfortable, now, having found this mutual connection. “I never thanked you for that, you saved my life, man.”

Daryl shrugs. “It's my job, I was just there.”

“Why were you there so late?” Beth asks. She's perched on the arm of the sofa, swinging her legs beneath her. Her socks have ladybugs on them today.

“Needed to finish a project,” Daryl says. He doesn't add that this was in the time right after Merle went to jail, when he and his ma had just gotten the apartment and could barely afford the ramen noodles they had for dinner each night. It was the money that first set his ma on the path towards sober; it got to a screaming match between them, one that ended with her in tears and him despising himself—but what else could he do? He couldn't keep a roof over their heads if they were spending more on alcohol than on food, especially not on one shitty income, no matter how Aaron stretched it with employee of the month bonuses (not that great an honor when Daryl's the only employee). He needed her help, he needed a partner—fucking hell, he needed a _mother_. She'd gone to that first AA meeting literally kicking and screaming, and came out a woman in love.

He looks at her now, where she's standing, as usual, arm and arm with her fiance, and feels a stab of resentment. A small one. A blunted one. But a stab nonetheless, that it took this man one hour to do what Daryl couldn't in 34 years.

“You hungry, Daryl?” his ma asks. “I made lasagna, should be done any minute.”

Daryl blinks. “You cooked?”

“Of course I did; I'm the lady of the house, after all.” Hershel and Beth smile at her indulgently, while Maggie's mouth twists a little and Glenn continues to look nervous. Daryl feels kinship with Maggie almost as strongly as he feels rage, to see her judging his ma.

Before he can reply a familiar ding goes off in the kitchen, and his ma rushes off to deal with it. Daryl still isn't used to seeing her move so fast; doesn't think he's seen her cook anything beyond toast, not _ever_ —and the whole thing leaves him with a level of vertigo beyond what he's used to.

He ignores Beth's concerned look as Hershel herds them all into the dining room—a dining room, a proper _dining room_ , not paper plates in front of pirated cable on whatever surfaces can be cleared the fastest—and seats them down according to some prearranged pattern: Hershel at the head, his fiancee to his right, Maggie on his other side along with Glenn and Beth. Daryl gets sat next to his ma, again across from Beth—but this time he doesn't let himself look at her. She's looking at him too much as it is.

They say grace (and lord is Daryl thankful he showered before coming here when he slides his hand, still damp, but manageable, into Beth's) and dig into the salad—made, again, by his ma, with apples and walnuts and some sort of raspberry vinaigrette. Maggie talks about grad school, Glenn about his improv troupe, Beth about choir and Hershel about work, and Daryl's ma—

She interjects through all of it. Happy, joyful, adding little tidbits, little “remember when's,” shared memories that don't involve her facedown on the floor or his dad with his boot up her ass. When the timer dings again, she brings in the lasagna, steaming, so fresh from the oven the cheese still bubbles—and there's his ma in a “hostess with the mostest” apron, moving about them on steady feet, leaving Hershel to cut and serve while she refills water that Daryl downs like vodka, wishing it were vodka, wishes, wishes—

He wishes Beth would quit looking at him like that; like there's something on the tip of her tongue, some _admonishment_ or _concern_ she wishes to air about his _behavior_ , like she's earned herself the right to mother him in a way his own mother never has—

Although there's plenty his ma has never done that she's doing right now. Everything she's doing, she's never done, and when she comes out with cupcakes (which she baked, of course, _of course,_ finished off with smiley faces in green icing because she's a Greene and the Greenes are _so fucking happy_ ) Daryl has to excuse himself, nearly tripping over his chair as he bolts to the porch.

He's nearly sobbing for breath when he bursts through the door and collapses against the railing, letting himself lean against it for a moment before straightening and fumbling for a cigarette, thanking fuck he didn't leave them in his truck like he considered doing.

He leans against the house, sucking in the smoke with the air he gasps until he's near choking; then holds his breath, lets it out slow, and begins again, smoking and breathing until his heart rate slows and he can close his eyes, lean his head back against the house, hold in some of his body's trembling.

He's almost managed to loosen himself when he hears the door open and shut. After that, he's stiff as a board.

He doesn’t look at her; doesn't let himself look as he sucks at the cig, holding it in his lungs like a joint before letting it out through his nose and mouth. He imagines he looks like a dragon, slavering, sniffing for something ripe and juicy; he's worried, in the back of his mind, what he'd do if he set his sights on Beth.

But of course, with her, it's not if but when; and when she's inched close enough that he can practically feel the heat of her arm against his his eyes snap open and he glares down at her, nostrils flaring, mouth spitting out a venomed, “What?”

She looks startled, to say the least; he's never taken that tone with her before, even on the first day never looked at her like this—and he wonders for a moment how much he could scare her. How he could get her blood racing, her heart in labored beat, her lungs heaving as she flees. She's so small, he thinks, looking at her—it would be so easy to pick her up by the throat and—

And nothing. _Nothing._

Daryl realizes he's trembling again and reaches for another cigarette, only for it to vibrate right out of his grasp and drop to the floor.

Before he can move she's bending over, rising to hand it to him silently. He doesn't acknowledge her, in thanks or otherwise; just lights up, growling at how the flame wavers above his shaking fingers. Finally the light catches and he snaps the lighter shut, shoving it into his pocket and beginning to suck all over again.

“Are you ok, Daryl?” she asks. Her voice is low, slow, melodious like she's gentling a horse. So soft, so _concerned._

“Fucking peachy,” he growls, glaring into the night—not letting himself look at her, her slight body, her tiny throat.

“Really? Cause you don't look 'peachy' to me.”

He does glare down at her now, sucking the cig until the end glows red, not bothering to turn his head when he exhales. She coughs a little, but she doesn't wave the smoke away; just lets it settle into her hair, mar her skin. She's still looking at him.

“What's it to you?” he asks.

She blinks. “You look upset,” she says slowly. “I wanted to be sure you're ok.”

“Yeah, and what's it to _you?”_

She stares at him, brow furrowed. “Daryl, did I do something?”

He's angry, he realizes; blazing angry, angry in a way he hasn't been in years—but still, he can't lie to her.

“No,” he mutters, thumping back against the house, enjoying the pain he feels in the knob of his spine.

“Then what's the matter?” she asks. Her hand comes up to his bicep, and he flinches violently; she withdraws immediately, even taking a step back, like he's a rabid dog ready to snap.

“Told you. Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” she says simply. He does stare at her now; more of a stare than a glare, because he's confused. He gave her an out—she could leave this conversation, leave him here, seething, return to her picture perfect life without him in it—and she's refusing. She's abandoned the inside to stay out here—with him.

The pang of confusion he feels nearly brings tears to his eyes, and he turns away again, smoking, smoking.

“It don't matter,” he mutters.

“It does,” she says earnestly. She hesitates, then takes that step back, closer to him. “Come back inside Daryl,” she entreats. She doesn't touch him, but he can feel how she wants to; almost wishes she would, so he'd have a reason to throw her off.

Or maybe—maybe he just wants her touch. Wants her hand on his arm, her arms around him, her voice in his ear that it's ok, he's ok, the hurt will pass, he's done enough—

He squeezes his eyes shut, head whirling. Fuck, he's screwed.

She's still talking.

“You don't have to stay long, I promise. Dessert will be over soon. Especially with Glenn here.” She smiles, although it fades quickly. “Come inside,” she says, soft. “Your mom's worried.”

He snorts so loudly she jumps a little, and he thinks— _good._

“Yeah, she looked real worried about things in there,” he mutters.

Beth's brow furrows again. “What do you mean?”

“Just go away, Beth,” he growls.

“No,” she says, stubborn as a mule, and Daryl feels the flickers of anger begin to lick up his sides again.

“Y'all don't want me here anyway.”

“We do,” she says earnestly.

She doesn't reach for him, but he steps away anyway, shaking his head violently.

“You _don't._ ”

“Don't you think we're better qualified to answer that question than you?” she asks, patient, so patient, easy and entreating and _kind_ and—

And Daryl want to slit his own throat.

“You know what?” he says, throwing the half-finished cig to the porch, grinding it in with a recalcitrant boot, “I'm outta here.”

“Daryl.” He begins to stalk past her, and then he feels it—her hand on his arm. As always, it's light, non-restrictive—but it shoots through him like lightning, and he can't stop himself this time.

He spins around so fast that she stumbles back a step, back bumping into the house as he steps forward to loom in front of her. “You wanna know what's fucking _wrong_ with me?”

She raises her chin, fists clenched at her sides. “Yes,” she says strongly, “I do.”

Daryl barks a laugh.

“You don't wanna _know,_ little girl.” She opens her mouth in protest, but he cuts her off, stepping closer, throwing her whole body into shadow. “You think y'all are so cozy in there?” he growls. “You think you got the perfect little family, mommy, daddy, and me? You're in for a rude fucking awakening.”

“Daryl—“

“You think my ma's some sorta Betty fucking Crocker? You think this is anything but a fucking _act?”_

“Daryl—“

“You have no idea where I come from, girl, no fucking clue—and you think cause you got some twisted version of my ma you got the right to know me? Guess the fuck again.”

“Daryl,” she says, short, strong, doing all but shoving at his chest. “Please step back.”

Daryl barks a laugh and shoves in closer until she does cower a little, shoulders coming in, a flicker of fear passing through her eyes. It's almost heady. Daryl hasn't felt like this since the time Merle slipped pills into his beer.

His eyes are narrow, mean. “You got this perfect little life, perfect little family, sitting here in fairytale land and pretending the real world don't exist. ‘Course your boyfriend cheated on your ignorant ass.”

She does shove him this time, and it's the surprise more than anything that has him stepping back. She doesn't take the moment to escape, however; just follows him along, jutting right into his personal space. “What the heck is your problem?” she hisses. “If you're upset about something we can _talk_ about it, but you don't get to treat me like this!”

“Ain't nothing to talk about,” Daryl growls.

“I think there is,” Beth says. Her body is practically vibrating, with rage or adrenaline or something else, and it stirs something in Daryl he doesn't want to think about. “I think you're _scared,_ Daryl Dixon. I think you see a place like this and you don't know what to do about it.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Daryl says.

He begins to step back but again, she follows, pinning him against the bannister.

“I think I do,” she says. “I know things were bad for you for a long time. I ain't an idiot, I can figure that out on my own. And now there's the chance things could go good and you're terrified of the change cause you don't think you're good enough for it.”

Daryl stares at her, blinking, head throbbing—

“Maybe we look silly to you, but this is my _family_.” She pauses, searching his face. “Your mom is my family, _you_ are my family. That's all that matters.”

“We ain't family. We're a fucking _convenience_. Just like you are.”

Beth reels back like she's been punched, and Daryl knows he's gone too far. But he can't stop talking.

“Family mean so much to you? You had a fucking family, and where'd they go, huh? Seem pretty ready to forget that dead mom of yours now you got a shiny new one.”

Daryl knows it's coming. He knows whatever's about to come out of her mouth is going to hurt.

It still doesn't prepare him. Not at all.

“You think I wouldn't trade my mama for yours any day of the week?”

The porch rings with silence. Daryl stares at her and sees horror bloom in Beth's eyes.

“No, no, Daryl, I didn't mean—“

“I know what you meant,” he says quietly. Daryl blinks rapidly and suddenly he's exhausted. He's fucking tired like he didn't imagine he could be around her and the despair he feels at that scares him to death.

He turns his back to her, grips the railing with white-knuckled hands.

“Daryl—“

“Just go.”

“Daryl, please—“

“Fucking _go!”_

His voice echoes a little, turned towards the open world as it is; reverberates through the landscape, settles on the hills and the fields. He can't see them through the dark—can barely see anything, beyond the circle of light cast by the porch lamp—but he can feel them, as if his own cry had bounced back on him, read him the earth that bears his witness. The cicadas are chirping, grasshoppers buzzing; somewhere, an owl hoots. Another answers it. They are surrounded by life.

He hears Beth take a step closer to him, and he tenses even further, hunched over the railing, and she stops. He's so glad she stops. He doesn't know what he'd do if she didn't. He doesn't know what he'll do now that she has. He just doesn't know, and for someone who has lived his entire life not knowing a rat's ass of anything, it leaves him more lost than it should.

She took a step forward, but she didn't take another. He hears her breathing, quiet, soft, the barest hiccup of something, a hitch he doesn't want to think about—and then the soft pad of her socks as she turns, walks away, vanishes inside the house behind a quietly shutting door.

Daryl wants to smoke but he can't move his hands from the railing; is worried he'd drop the cig again, and the thought of dropping it without her there to catch it makes him ache for a reason he can't name.

So he holds his breath instead. Holds it until he goes lightheaded. Holds it again. And again. And again.

The owl hoots. Daryl listens. He's an inch from spreading his blackened wings and joining it.


	6. The Violent Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the blow-out on the porch, Daryl and Eleanor work through some demons, while Beth works on something of her own. The night becomes a turning point for all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains an extended conversation between Daryl and Eleanor that is about, among other things, the complexities of Eleanor's relationship with Daryl's father. If you have gone through a similar situation as Daryl, please be careful reading this chapter—I know if I had read this a few years ago it would have been extremely triggering, and even now it was difficult to write. Take care of yourselves <3
> 
> In happier news: The warnings for underage sexuality go into effect now :D
> 
> \----------------  
> FOR EVERYONE WHO GOT AN E-MAIL ALERT FOR CHAPTER 7: That was not a mistake, I did post a chapter - I thought it would work well as a short chapter, but I felt very unsettled about it; it didn't feel like my best work, so I'm going to hold off on posting that until the larger chapter is finished. Sorry for any confusion/let downs!

Daryl doesn't know how long he's been standing here. He wants to go home, but somehow he can't get his body to move. He's a statue, he thinks. A fucking statue, put up for the sole purpose of allowing pigeons a friendly perch to shit on. What a miracle life is.

He could have stood there forever, but when the chill night begins wracking his body in violent shivers, he figures it's time to go. He cranes his neck to see past the eaves; sees her light is on, her father's light beside it. His mother's light. His mother.

Daryl drags a harsh hand through his hair, sighs, tips his head back to feel the cold air. He gathers himself and heads inside.

The warmth of the house hits him like a smack in the face; the warmth and the scent, the lingering juice of the lasagna, the sweeter odor of cupcakes, the smell of carpet and old wood and the kind of house that doesn’t need an air freshener to smell like home. This is a home.

A home. Not his. Never his. Not now.

He means only to grab his jacket from the closet, sneak back out and vanish into the night—probably go straight to a bar, drink till he can't stand up. He hasn't done that in a while, not since Ma went sober, not since he didn't have to be the adult and could follow in Merle's tracks without the ensuing repercussions.

Over a year without a blackout, though. He thinks he's due.

He means only to grab his jacket; and he does get that far, far enough that he's shrugging into it before he hears.

Humming. From the kitchen.

But it isn't Beth.

He pauses, warring with himself. He doesn't know if he _wants_ to see her right now; doesn't know how much of his anger is left, how much could leak out onto her, too weak to take it. But just like Beth's humming drew him a map to the kitchen those weeks ago, so his ma's humming draws him now.

When he steps through the doorway and into the light he's hit with such a sense of deja vu it nearly bowls him backwards.

His ma is sat at the kitchen table, in slippers and a terrycloth robe, clipping coupons.

Daryl stands there silently for several long moments before she notices him; does so with a little jump that makes him twitch in turn.

She jumps, then laughs at herself, bringing a hand to her chest.

“Dangit, Daryl, you startled me! Beth told me you left.”

Daryl's insides shiver violently at Beth's name, but he puts them in a stranglehold. There's no room for her here, not now.

“Forgot my jacket,” he says. He jerks his chin at the coupons. “How long you been at that?”

“Oh, these? Started them this morning. Just been a little bit now.” She looks at him, raises an eyebrow. “There's another set of scissors. Wanna help your mama?”

Daryl's hands clench. They unclench. He blinks and they're back in their dilapidated old house, radio blasting country twang, junk in piles higher than his young head.

He blinks again, and he's back in the Greene kitchen. But the scent—musty, stale, the vague trace of rot that they could never find the source of, not that they really tried—the scent lingers. His nose twitches, but he doesn't rub it; takes the paralysis, the endless stasis, as the penance he deserves. The penance he's deserved for a long, long time, now.

So he nods; follows her pointing finger to the cupboard by the sink, pulls out a pair of plastic safety scissors, pink butterfly sticker sparkling at him from the flat of the blade. They make him smile, for a moment; make him picture another scene in this kitchen, a young blonde girl in pigtails making collages for a school project. Daryl had to do that once; the only magazines in the house were pornos (his ma would never let him touch her coupons), so he got in a bit of trouble for that—but he liked the act of following the lines, twisting and turning the paper to cut it in swooping arcs, dabbing the cheap liquid glue just so, careful not to soak through the paper—he liked assignments like that, where he could use his hands. It was one of the reasons why he liked helping his mama with this, before he fully grasped what it meant—a way to keep her own hands busy, something small to deal with so she didn't have to care about the rest of the shit around her. It took him a while to figure that out, why she'd cut and cut and never use them, and if she did it was for the most useless things—a blender when they didn't even buy fruit, pairs and pairs and pairs of reading glasses that stood like pyramids on her dresser.

Even after that, part of him still liked helping her. Twisting and swooping. Making her life a little easier, if only in her mind. He liked that.

Daryl slides into the seat across from her—the same one he took to talk to Beth—and grabs one out of the stack of leaflets. When he was little they'd play games—cut out all the products starting with the letter 'e' as fast as you can, find more with yellow lettering than the other person. He hopes she isn't about to start one of those—but she doesn't. Just sits quietly, clipping her coupons, glasses balanced on the tip of her nose.

“Dinner was alright, sweetie?” she asks after a few minutes, glancing up at him. Daryl grunts, starting in on a two-for-one deal on bleach. “We saved a cupcake for you. I've got it in the fridge, if you want it.”

“M'fine,” Daryl says. His ma nods, humming a little. “Where'd you learn to make that stuff?”

She shoots him a weird look. “A recipe,” she says slowly. “Beth found it for me online. You ought to get a computer, Daryl. Join us in the 21st century.”

“The fuck'd I use it for?”

“I don't know. Read the news, watch sports. Beth has a blog, she could show you how to do that.”

“Don't want a blog,” Daryl grumbles.

“Well, you should look at Beth's anyway, it's very pretty. Did you know she sings?”

“I don't care, Ma.”

Eleanor's eyebrows raise at his tone, but she continues as if she hadn't heard. “Might give you an idea of what to give her for her birthday. You were at the party, Daryl, it was rude not to get her anything.”

Daryl feels his ma's words like a pang in his gut. Beth didn't tell his ma about the bird. She wanted it a secret. For what reason, Daryl doesn't know, but—something in Beth told her the bird meant more than he said. Or she knew his ma would know what it meant. Regardless. It was important enough to her to keep it safe, keep it to herself, and that...

Daryl doesn't have the energy to deal with that right now. It's too much.

“Hershel gone to sleep?” he asks, hoping to change the subject.

“Yes. I love the man, but his sleep schedule is awful. Under the covers by 9:30 on the dot. Who does that?”

“He owns a farm, Ma. He works.” Daryl waits for her to say something, but she doesn't. “You been sleeping right?”

Eleanor shrugs in a way Daryl knows means 'not at all.' “Been fine,” she says. “Few sleepless nights, but Hershel gets great cable. And there are so many markets around here, I need the time to cut all these coupons anyway.”

“You ain't using them, are you?”

Eleanor pauses at that, looking at him over her glasses. “Of course I use them. Why wouldn't I?” Daryl shrugs, grumbling unintelligibly. “Daryl?”

“No reason.”

“No, there is a reason or you wouldn't have said it. Why did you say that?”

“Don't get upset, Ma.”

“I ain't upset, I want to know why you said that.”

“Cause just cause the man's got money don't mean you gotta use it!”

The silence, the next few moments, is deafening—Daryl's cheeks heat under his ma's hurt look.

“Why would you say that?”

“You know why.”

“No, Daryl, I don't.”

Daryl hunches his shoulders, focuses on following the curve of a salad spinner so he doesn't have to look at her. “'S why we always had all that junk, Ma. Fuck, Pop beat your ass for it a million times, I still got to say this?”

“Your father hurt us because he was unsatisfied with his own life,” she says, in that robotic way he knows means she's quoting an AA meeting. “It had nothing to do with me.”

“You didn't need to give him the excuse.”

“It don't matter now. That's behind us.”

“It ain't–, it...” Daryl looks up, meets her gaze, flounders. He doesn't know how to explain it, what he feels sometimes; what he feels when he looks at the Greenes, when they look at him. Like, no matter that his pop was half the size he is now, Daryl's got his shadow wrapped round him like a cloak; that no matter where he goes he's got his head pressed into a pile of decaying newspaper, the old man's hands wrapped around his throat, his mama crying in the bathroom.

He only feels different, sometimes, when Beth looks at him. When she tells him about herself with no expectations that he'll reciprocate, when she trusts him with the bits of her that she... and now what he's done, it's...

Daryl swallows, puts the scissors down a moment so they don't show how hard he's trembling. His ma is looking at him—not quite concerned, but puzzled.

“What is this about, Daryl?”

“Why'd you marry him, Ma?”

She blinks.

“Because I loved him.”

“ _How?_ How'd he...”

 _How'd he trick you?_ Daryl wants to ask. _What did you ignore, so you could love him? Was it the marriage that did it, the pregnancy? Or something in him, something in you, something he put in you that made it twisted and ugly and dark? Where'd that fifteen year old with dreams and a metal bird go?_

“Was he different? When you met him?”

“Yes. No. I don't... Daryl, I don't want to talk about this.”

“I need to know, Ma,” Daryl says, more urgently than he means to. “I need to... you cant've just _loved_ him.” _It wasn't that simple, was it?_

“Why not?” Eleanor puts the scissors down, starts picking at her nails. “He was... you know how he was, in public. I was _young_ , I was a girl, and here was this... this man, this handsome, wild _man_ , who thought I was pretty, and treated me nice.” She pauses. He can see her chewing on the insides of her cheeks, like she does when she's trying not to think about drinking. He's about to apologize, tell her to drop it, when she continues. “He's the first man I ever loved. I still love him. Part of me always will.”

“ _How?_ After...”

“I don't know.” She's slumped in her seat, looking every day her 63 years, and more, and Daryl hates himself for doing this to her. “It's why I couldn't stop drinking, even after... because I hated him. I did. God, I did. When they brought me into that morgue and I saw his face all eaten up I wanted to _cheer_. Served the sonuvabitch right, eating at me all those years, that he'd end up bug food in the forest.” Daryl sees a spot of blood has appeared on her thumb where she's tearing at the nail, but he can't quite bring himself to touch her and get her to stop. “But then I... I _missed_ him. And I don't know if it's that, wassit, Stockholm's Syndrome, or just that I didn't know what to do with myself without him ordering me around, hating on me; but after all those horrible years, all those terrible things he done, I don't think I ever loved him more than I did the day he died.” She opens her mouth as if to say more, then closes it. She lowers her eyes. “All I really regretted was what he did to you boys.”

Daryl sits, hands lying limply on the table, feeling like all his limbs have been sliced from his body. He didn't know what he wanted from this conversation, but what he got... he didn't expect this. And it sets something horrible clanging in his chest, something like the sound of a hamster wheel he can't get out of.

“And now?” Daryl asks hoarsely. His ma looks up. “If you loved–, if you love him, and you love Hershel—how you know Hershel's any different? How you know you won't end up eating each other inside out too?”

“Because _I'm_ different,” she says. Daryl opens his mouth, but she speaks over him. “I know you think I ain't. I ain't blind, hon; I've seen how you been looking at me. You think it's all just costume, right?” She smiles tightly. “So did I, for a long time. Since I first went sober, it felt like I was trying to be someone I'd lost a long time ago. That little girl, 'fore Will Dixon rode up on his motorcycle.” She shakes her head. “And maybe that's all fixing yourself is, trying to be who you were before the world hurt you so bad. I still want that, sometimes so bad I can barely breathe, but—I didn't have Hershel, then. I didn't have _you._ ” She smiles, tears standing out in her eyes. “My sweet boy, it was worth all of it to have you.”

Daryl doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't; stares at his ma until she looks down, notices the blood leaking from her thumb; looks at it for a moment, eyes glazed, before bringing it to her mouth. She glances at him, then picks her scissors back up, the magazine. One tear has rolled down her cheek but that's all.

She sniffs loudly, shakes herself a bit. When she speaks, her voice is watery, but light. “Look at that, babe; you buy a flatscreen at Walmart they'll give you a free DVD player. Maybe time to replace that old dinosaur at your place, huh?”

“Maybe.” Daryl shifts in his seat, unsettled. “Hey, Ma—how long ago did Beth go to sleep?”

She looks up, brow scrunched. “Not too long ago; few minutes before you came in. Why?”

“Just gotta tell her something, 'fore I go.”

“Alright; well, she's first room at the top of the stairs.” His ma smiles at him. “She really did appreciate you coming to her party, you know. I think she misses her brother a lot; having you is good for her. She's a good sister for you too.”

"She ain't my sister," Daryl grumbles.

"Not yet."

“Yeah.” Daryl clears his throat, stands. “Sorry I didn't get much clipping done.”

“That's fine, dear,” his ma says, not looking up. “You have a safe drive home, ya hear?”

“Yeah. G'night, Ma.”

“Mmhmm.”

Daryl stands still a few moments—looks at his ma's rusty hair, the grey that long ago overwhelmed the red, hiding all but the curve of her cheek as she bends over the table, absorbed, once more, in her task. Daryl thinks, suddenly, of how he feels out in the woods, sometimes when he looks at an engine. The security, the still, the absolute calm that comes from doing something you're good at, that you've practiced. Dedicated yourself to, again and again, for years and years, until the movements are as natural as rolling out of bed in the morning, the knowledge written like letters in the sky.

Sometimes getting out of bed is not so easy; words made from clouds scatter and drift away; but here his ma will always be, sat at the kitchen table, clipping coupons, her reflection warped and bulged by the blade of a safety scissor.

She doesn't look up at him again. Daryl leaves.

He walks towards the stairs slowly, carefully, listening to the creak of his boots on the floorboards, the creaking of the house. His ma has not resumed her humming, but that's alright; even from within the walls, he can hear the light echo of the cicadas, the grasshoppers. The owl hoots from closer, maybe even a perch on the eaves—but it's a sleepy call, a dying one. It will be some time before it hunts again.

The house Daryl grew up in had two levels, if only just; all that was upstairs was his parents' bedroom and a storage room that had long since been filled up and forgotten by the time Daryl grew old enough to remember such things. He and Merle shared a mattress in a water closet off the living-room; the rattle of the pipes woke them up every time Pop took a piss or Ma got a drink of water, and when one of them wet the bed it was impossible to hide from the other. Merle'd pretend, at the time, that the wet spot on their mattress was from jerking off, that mysterious thing that grown up boys did that Daryl had yet to learn—but as he grew he learned the smell of jizz and he learned the smell of piss and Merle knew that he learned when Daryl stopped asking him about it. Daryl contributed his own share, of course, and Merle could have given him hell for it, even if it made him a hypocrite; but he never did. It's the one thing Merle has never taunted him about, those nights spent lying side by side, listening to their pop's rock-hard shits rattling around in the pipes, one or the other's whimpering and releasing bladder permeating the air between them.

Beth wouldn't have had that. She wouldn't have been close to that. She has her own room, he knows; he sees, as he comes to the landing, the first door at the top of the stairs, identical to the others save a ladybug collaged from construction paper, antennae curly-cued, smile wide and cheeks flushed, loopy letters spelling out “Miss Beth” across the space between its wings. It's laminated, so he can't tell how old it is—it could have been made for her for the first day of kindergarten, or she could have made it to name herself, for some teaching job or other. He's never seen her handwriting before, but it looks like it could be hers. Smooth, neat, strong lines, self-consciously strong in the way they arch and flow. Lines made by a mind that knows its limits.

He's never known no one like her—someone clean, someone whole, someone whose brain doesn't bleed through the cracks.

And yet. And yet. He'd seen those cracks; found the marks like Merle so often found his, like his pop had before him, put his thumb to the point and pressed until blood oozed forth. He'd smelled her piss on the mattress, and he hadn't allowed her the dignity of pretending it was something different.

Daryl thinks about his pop in a way he hasn't in a long, long time—tries to recall the face of which he has no pictures: the craggy, pockmarked cheeks, the military buzz despite the fact he'd never been near the army in his life, learned the mean and the tough on the streets and in back alleys. Daryl doesn't know anything about his childhood, beyond it weren't much different from Daryl's own; he'd only met his Grandpa Walter once, when Will took him to the nursing home to laugh at the old man, slumped in bed, mind gone and muscles withered and barely responding as Merle flicked at his hairy ear. That was the day that Daryl learned what cruelty looked like, and he'd learn it again, and again and again until it was writ as deep in his bones as the scars were in his back.

But he thinks of his ma. He thinks how she gave up—abandoned herself and her sons to abuse while she fled into drink, into squalor, into oblivion. She gave up—but she never gave in. She would drown in drink and shatter the bottles and crawl across the shards and show Will in her silence what he did to her. They could barely afford a box of cereal at a time, but she fed cats who wandered to their door; she sat in the kitchen in the summer and looked at the daffodils that bloomed among the weeds. She told Daryl about her childhood in the bayous—endless days dashing through ear-high grass, mud that soaked so deep in her feet the soles still remain brown—she told him about her own mama, and her mama before her, and the mama before who hid slaves in half-sunk boats until they could escape through nightfall. How the Lanou women were strong, and kind in their strength.

Beth could be a Lanou, Daryl thinks.

His mama always said he could be too.

He doesn't know about that. He doesn't know much. But he knows he's a Dixon, and whatever Dixons are, they pay their debts.

He owes this girl a coffer-full.

He's so sunk in thoughts of himself, he doesn't take much notice of the door shut tight. He's faced shut doors his whole life, and he's never let them stop him for long. So he doesn't think before placing his hand on the door knob. Doesn't think before pushing it open, silent out of habit. He doesn't think about what that closed door means.

Even his hunter's eyes, well accustomed to the dark, take a few moments to adjust to the dim of the room; a few more to locate Beth's body in the shadows. The hallway is dim, and some instinct tells Daryl to only open the door a crack; that sliver combined with the moonlight streaming through the windows shimmers off Beth's golden head, the back of it turned towards him as she lies on her stomach beneath one thin sheet, comforter kicked clear off the bed. Her legs are sprawled nearly the width of the mattress, forming a diamond as her feet point back towards each other. He can see the line of a spaghetti strap crossing her shoulder blade; the light glints off the plastic adjustor, flickering as it moves with her body.

At first he thinks the movement is breathing. It's what he expects to see, after all—the deep, slow breaths of the sleeper, or those nearly asleep.

But that isn't it. The movement is not just up and down, but side to side, back and forth; too dramatic to be the sighs of one attempting to sleep, but too smooth, too controlled, to be the motions of a dream. She gives a small gasp, and he notices the hand of the arm on her far side is sunk into the nest of her tousled hair; as he watches, she jerks her own chin down, light sparking off her nail polish as it vanishes amongst the blonde strands. The curve of her back stands out rigid against the sheet and her other hand—

Daryl feels suddenly like his whole body has been flooded with water. Like someone has drilled a hole through his flesh, stuck a hose in his side, and has filled him up bit by bit. The liquid squeezes his organs, pushes at his eyes, presses at the flap of his closed throat until in this moment it stretches him taut, skin groaning, pores popping, cock filling into a rod as tight and rigid as the bones of his back.

Her hipbone presses a delicate forearm into the bed. Her wrist flexes, and her hips follow, billowing up and down like a sail in the wind. A sound like a question rolls from her lips and she tugs at her own hair and grinds into the mattress.

Into the mattress. Into her hand. Into her own juices, which he can hear, suddenly, in the quiet of the room where the only sound is her pants. She hums, and he can see clear as if it were before his eyes her teeth sink into her lower lip; her hips circle, growing wider and wider until they jerk, suddenly, and she lets out a whine, breathy and high, drags her hand from her hair and across the mattress until he can hear her nails scratching the fabric. The muscles of her back smooth and contract as her hand moves, sliding deeper down and into—

Into her cunt. Into Beth Greene's cunt. Into her wet, weeping, soaked-through cunt that squelches when she pushes her own fingers inside herself and follows it with a breathy cry, a full body crunch as she works herself deeper, presses the crown of her head into the pillow and arches her back and whimpers again and moans and hits something inside herself that makes her jerk so hard the sheet falls to her hips and he can see her camisole rolled up to her breast bone, tits swinging free and brushing the mattress with each thrust. She gasps, and gasps again, rolls her head against the pillow like she's flattening dough, unfolds her spine and seats herself deep and _shoves_ —

—and her hips snap and her whole body shudders and little 'ah's' grow louder and louder until suddenly she's arching, nails scraping the bed and scream muffled by the pillow between her teeth as she comes in waves all over her soft little hand.

Daryl knows, suddenly, he mustn't make a sound. Mustn't move, mustn't breathe; not that he could if he wanted to. Because now she's laid out flat, hand still between her legs, but relaxed; limbs still sprawled, but limp, lax and loose. Her heaving breaths slow to gasps, her gasps to breaths to sighs. Her whole body bows towards the bed as if her bones have turned to sludge.

And suddenly, she's giggling—rolling her face into the pillow again, body shaking almost as intensely as it had moments before as she rides the euphoric aftershocks and the memories hit him like a freight train of every other time he’d heard her make that noise, high and melodic like the twittering of birds—but no bird has ever thrown the sheet up off its body; never lain there in tiny pink panties and a rucked up shirt; never made Daryl so hard he can practically hear the blood pulsing through his dick.

As the giggles in his head melt into the giggles in her bed, Daryl seizes on the moment before she quiets to step back on silent feet. His hand goes to the doorknob, and he tells his eyes to come along, but they don’t quite obey; wander up, once more, to the girl bathed in moonlight; take in the long pale legs, the dip of back, a hand wiggling up out of her panties, glistening to the wrist—

—and without a breath and with a hand that does not shake he slides the door closed in a whisper across the carpet.

 


	7. Pretty Pink Elephants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He isn't thinking about it. You know. It. The thing. The thing that happened. The thing he saw. The places her hands went, the sounds she made, her skin shining like satin beneath the moon...
> 
> No. Nope. He isn't thinking about it at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for how long it took to get this chapter up, and the confusion when I posted part of it early - I've had killer writer's block and even this I'm not totally happy with. I'm hoping some lovely comments will help shake my brain loose :)
> 
> Warnings for brief homophobic and racist language.

Daryl never had much formal learning, but if there's one thing his childhood taught him about, it's cereal. Not the healthy rabbit shit—that wasn't even on his radar, and Pop would'a beat him within an inch of his life if he showed any preference for it—but everything else: Lucky Charms and Cocoa Puffs and Cinnamon Toast Crunch; anything coated in sugar and dipped in vats of dye was considered acceptable. It constituted the majority of their diet, aside from the meat their dad and later Daryl and Merle were able to hunt down, berries they found in the forest. Pop made it known the shopping was his wife's job, but as the years went on and she became more and more incapacitated, their cupboards grew more and more bare. The job passed to Daryl so he could save his ma a hiding, and there was no one to tell him not to get what he liked.

Now, he's a little more versed in notions of nutrition—he's eaten often enough at Aaron's house to know what a pair of vegetarians think of his diet—which means he's carrying an apple and some eggs alongside a family-size box of Honey Bunches of Oats as he surveys Walmart's endless aisles, fingers flexing on the basket as he works down his anxiety. He fucking hates this place—hates any store bigger than the grocer's, hates the little unwashed kids scampering around, hates the memories his pop made in the parking lot and the liquor section the few times he actually came along—but he's already planning to blow at least a hundred bucks on a tux, it's not like he can afford much else.

It's Friday afternoon after his shift. He doesn't have work in the morning, so he grabs a pair of six packs. He knows full well what he looks like: sunburned and dirty, grease stained up his arms, great sweat marks working down his sides, uncut hair dangling tangled in his eyes—consummate redneck, up to no good, nowhere to go, not much to do. He glares at a pair of grandmas giving him the stink-eye until they turn away muttering, and heads towards the checkout. 

He cuts through self-help to avoid the pink panty display.

He's halfway through the parking-lot when his phone goes off in his pocket, and he freezes; heart seizing, he sets his bags on a nearby car and fishes out the phone. He breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of his mother's name.

“Hey, Ma,” he says, taking the bags back up and continuing.

“Hi, sweetie,” she says, over-bright. “How've you been? It feels like forever since we last talked!”

“Been busy,” Daryl mumbles.

“That's ok, dear.” Eleanor pauses. “Want to come for dinner tonight? Hershel's making stew, old Scottish recipe. Meat's store bought but he promises it's delicious.”

“Can't tonight,” Daryl says, reaching his truck and leaning against the door, jiggling his leg. “Got an early morning tomorrow.”

There's another pause—infinitesimal, but he hears it. “Well, we'll miss you.” Daryl drums his fingers on the door. “Beth's been asking after you.”

“Hmm?” Daryl says, drumming faster.

“Says she's been having trouble reaching you. She's been cast in a play, you know, a musical—should'a seen how happy she was, it's like it was Broadway! She's already got the cutest little costume—“

“Listen, Ma,” Daryl cuts in. She stops talking. “Listen, uh, I gotta go. I'll call you soon, ok?”

“...Ok, Daryl,” his ma says. Her voice is small. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Alright.” Daryl pauses, then ends the call.

He stands in the Walmart parking lot, back against his beat-up truck, phone in his hand. He stares at it for one beat, two, then flips it open; goes to the missed calls menu.

He scrolls down slowly, item by item. Day by day, back by weeks. All of them missed; all of them voicemails; all of them with her face, brilliant as it was that day in the kitchen, smiling from the corner.

Daryl flips his phone closed. He gets in the truck. He heads home.

* * *

It isn't that long a drive, but it's long enough. Long enough, and known enough, that his mind wanders, whether he wants it to or not. Wanders, like everything does, to her.

He sits with one elbow out the window and one hand on the wheel and he isn't thinking about it. Not what he saw that night. Not that. Just about her. There's a lot to think about, isn't there—thinks about the weird way she was with Amy and Diane; fond, but distant, like they're vestiges of some formal life she isn't ready to let go of yet. Daryl doesn't quite get it—it ain't like he's ever had many friends to leave behind, after all—but he thinks he might understand, if she told him about it. Told him about what makes her so tired at these things, what makes her look at him like he's the only one who isn't making her want to rip her eyeballs out. He's never been that for no one—usually been the one doing the eyeball ripping, you come right down to it—but he is for her. Even with her family, at dinner, something had seemed off—like there's some knowledge that sets Beth apart from the rest of them, some history Daryl is excluded from.

It's like that damn Jimmy kid. There's history there. Daryl knows there is. Knows he wouldn't be giving her that hurt puppy dog look if she didn't kick him to the road at some point. And the way he looked at Daryl, like he was a  _rival_ or something, for whatever it is Beth used to give him. 

Daryl's bicep clenches where it holds his arm against the breeze of the road, thinking about that. Thinking about all the places a farm has, to sneak off to. Nooks and crannies for doing things Daddy doesn't want to think about—kisses under the eaves and touching behind the barn—maybe he got as far as her bra, touching it or taking it off, maybe he got farther—maybe she met him in the hayloft, once; climbed the trellis down from her window in the dead of night, like she must have for that party; snuck out to the barn on socked feet, or maybe bare, skipping along with small grunts at the sticks and stones that jab her sensitive arches. He'd be waiting for her; hard for her, like he always is, can't help being around her—blonde hair floating around a swan-like neck, delicate fingers, breasts the size of ripe plumbs and probably just as sweet, a cunt made for drinking from... she'll sink down with him. And she'll be shy, covering herself sweetly until he pulls her hands away, kisses everything she's worried about him seeing, laps at the underside of a breast and thumbs the hot wet button between her legs, making her gasp, making her whine, making her throw back her head and _Honk! Honk! Honk!_ —

The car horn goes three more times before Daryl comes to, blinks, and grips the wheel with both hands to swerve out of the oncoming lane.

He migrates two more lanes before he reaches the shoulder, slowing to a stop by a deer crossing warning. Breathes in deep. Breathes out slow. Squeezes his eyes shut. Bites his lip as he thinks about roadkill, his pop on a bender, Merle's bunioned feet, anything to will down the erection straining painfully against his jeans.

He doesn't completely get rid of it—he never does, these days—but he reduces it enough that he can think, can drive.

He doesn't do much of either; not for a long time. Just sits at the side of the road; looks at the woods arching up around him, the dust-motes swimming through the light of the fading day, car by car passing him, going home to spouses, families, empty apartments. Watches the cars until they blur into one multi-colored streamer, clouded and bubbled as molten glass.

He turns on the car. He pulls off the shoulder. He tries again.

* * *

Daryl hasn't come in weeks. He's starting to wonder if you can get some sort of infection from that, like his ma always said you would from holding in piss. What a thing to die of, he thinks; hot green puss exploding from his aching nuts.

He remembers doing Merle's laundry when he had the clap. Nothing about any of that is pretty.

It isn't like he came all that often to begin with. Was never like Merle, jerking one off at night and in the morning, more regularly than he brushed his teeth. Daryl's never felt much need to; not for years, not since Pop shoved his mags at Daryl, told him to man up, learn how to fuck like his old man, good enough to get even a loose bag like his mama going. Daryl tried, sometimes, when Merle was sleeping; took out the mags and a lighter he'd snatched from the first teacher who'd told him to just fucking drop out already, lay on his side in the dark on the mattress that smelled like piss, looked at women with anuses as open as mouths, things shoved into them from dicks to baseball bats. Sometimes he found a corner, a moment, that made something stir in him, something deep and wild and aching; but then the pipes would rattle or Merle would snore and it would be lost like shit down a drain.

As he grew older, he learned tricks to make it happen; ways to touch himself, a feeling to hold, sounds, smells. He never saw anything, never felt sensation on his skin. He was eyeless, bodiless, a wrench turning a screw or a hammer on a nail, a tool doing a job to be done with it. It felt good, of course it did. Felt like nothing he'd ever imagined. But it didn't feel like Merle made it sound, all his talk about tits and pussy and the shit he'd do with them, like they weren't even connected to anything, like they'd been put on God's green earth for Merle Dixon to flick and fondle and fuck himself on. It didn't feel like enough to do it till women went dead inside, like he'd seen in his ma's face when Daryl came in after his pop had left, small hands clutching cigarettes and a hot water bottle that his ma'd put between her legs without comment. Didn't even feel like enough to bother doing, most nights, most days. Daryl's gone months without coming, without even thinking about it.

It's been weeks, now. Before then it was weeks too; but those weeks he didn't carry inside his balls until they ached like there were watermelons dangling between his legs. Those weeks he didn't commit traffic violations because the blood he needed to think had flooded south.

Those weeks, he didn't know what Beth Greene sounds like when she comes. He didn't know how her tits tent into perfect little peaks. He didn't know how the curve of her ass through cotton panties makes his dick harder than all his pop's mags put together.

It's been weeks since he's come, and come, and come, gripping his truck and painting the dust of the Greenes' drive.

It's been weeks and three minutes since he closed Beth's bedroom door.

* * *

Even with his floating head, he can tell something's wrong the moment he steps onto his floor. He can smell smoke, for one; cigarette smoke filling the hall, tinged with a tang of pizza. He freezes at the top of the stairs. The only other person on this floor is an asthmatic former nun, and that leaves...

Daryl steps slowly forward towards his door, head cocked and listening. There's definitely someone in there—he can hear the tinny audio of his TV, some sort of announcer's voice. He curls one hand around his switchblade, moves the other towards the doorknob—

“Aww, come on, ya left yourself wide open, ya jackass!”

Daryl closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the door. Of course. Of course. Why didn't he change the locks?

He takes a deep breath, readying himself, and pushes inside.

The sound of the TV blasts out at him as the televised audience cheers. A groan sounds from the couch. Daryl can't see anything past the sofa-back beside a pair of filthy boots hanging off the armrest.

Daryl was there ten years ago when he bought those boots from a biker's widow. Thought it would bring him luck, stamping around in a dead man's shoes.

“Merle,” Daryl says.

Merle's head pops up over the sofa. The cigarette nearly falls from his mouth as he grins.

“Hey Darylina, thought you'd never get home. That fairy workin' you rough?”

“The hell are you doing here?” Daryl asks, shutting the door behind him. “And fucking put that out, you're gonna have Mrs. Weisz on my ass.”

“A man can't swing by to visit his baby brother?” A sound comes from the TV, and Merle turns his head, shooting into a full sitting position. “Come on ya goddamned pussies, I could beat ya one handed!”

“I haven't heard from you in eight months.”

Merle rolls his eyes. “Sorry,  _ Ma _ .” Daryl doesn't rise to the bait, remaining silent. Merle rolls his eyes again, shimmying around so he can look at Daryl more comfortably. “I've been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Work hard, play hard, baby brother,” Merle says, waggling his eyebrows. He jerks his head. “C'mon and sit down, it's your fucking place.”

Daryl blinks at that, still stunned slightly dumb at the sight of his big brother. Merle raises his eyebrows, and Daryl brings the groceries to the kitchen, shoving everything in the fridge to sort out later. He pauses before closing it, and reaches back in to grab a six-pack.

“How is dear old Ma anyway?” Merle asks. “You started sharing the bed or something, your shit ain't out here.”

“She moved in with Hershel,” Daryl says. “Few weeks ago.”

“Shiiiit, the bastard propose or something?”

“Yeah.”

Daryl nearly brains Merle with the six-pack he chucks at him, avoided only by Merle's reflexes, long honed in bar bawls.

Merle holds the beer still where he caught it in front of his face, staring at Daryl with a furrow in his brow. “Come again?”

“Hershel proposed. They're getting married soon.”

“You're fucking joking.”

“Nah, man.” Daryl looks at Merle's still-flabbergasted face, and decides that there's no point pretending Merle isn't here with an intent to stay, at least for a short while. Daryl heads to the rickety armchair and drops in with a grunt. Merle notwithstanding, it feels good to be home after a day of hard work.

He wonders, then, when exactly this shithole became his home. Peeling paint, secondhand furniture, a living space and a bedroom, a bathroom that doesn't even connect to the main room—it's cleaner since Ma left, if only from the fact that most of the knick-knacks were hers. Without the kitsch, all that's left is the spartan furnishing and Daryl's shit—a pile of unwashed plates in the sink, beer bottles littering the coffee table (currently swept to the floor to make room for the giant pizza Merle ordered, topped with fried chicken and already half gone). It isn't a home the way the Greene farm is a home—a place of safety, of good memories, of family dinners and photographs smiling from the mantlepiece. Daryl has no decoration, no pictures; the few they had Ma took with her. He could pack up and be out of here in ten minutes.

It isn't a home like the farm is a home. But it's a space. Four walls, a roof, somewhat-reliable heat in winter and windows he can open in summer. With the door locked he's relatively sure no one's gonna start beating on him out of nowhere; with the former nun as his only neighbor, there are no angry screams to disturb his sleep. It might not be cozy, it might not be pretty—but it's his.

He doesn't know why that's a revelation. He doesn't know why that makes him sad, when he looks at Merle, turned around to face Daryl but still in essentially the same pose, holding the six-pack in front of his face like he's an alien doesn't know what to do with it. When Daryl leans down to unlace his boots, Merle jumps a little, looking at the beer in his hand and lowering it to the sofa at his side.

“Shit,” Merle says again. He leans down, setting his elbows on his spread knees. “So, what? Y'all family now or something?”

_We ain't family. We're a fucking convenience._

“Something like that,” Daryl mumbles, scowling as flakes of dried mud flake from his boots to the carpet.

“She's really fucking marrying the guy?”

“Ya deaf or something? I said she is.”

Merle shakes his head, letting out a long whistle. “Mama Dixon, married again. We'll see how long that lasts.”

Daryl scowls. “The fuck you talking about?”

“Ya really think the bastard'll put up with her for more than a year or two? A wife who don't cook, don't clean, lies in bed all day in her fucking jammies?”

“She does cook now,” Daryl says. “Made lasagna, and cupcakes. From a recipe.”

“From a recipe,” Merle says flatly. Daryl half-nods, half-shrugs, and Merle snorts, pulling out a switchblade and reaching for a beer.“And ya think that proves anything, beyond she knows how to read? She's trying now cause it's new and special and she got a fancy new family to parade in front of ya, prove she can do something for once.”

“It ain't like that,” Daryl says, suddenly anxious to get Merle to understand. “You ain't... you haven't been here, Merle. It's been eight fucking months.”

“Still the same old Ma.”

“Maybe, but...” Daryl pauses, thinking of her face when Hershel looks at her. How she lights up like a solar lantern soaked in sunlight. How proud she's been of herself for getting this far.

He thinks of blonde hair, a smile; a car, beat up and blaring.

“She might be the same, but that don't mean she can't have new parts. Don't mean she can't change.”

“Fuckin' look at you, Dr. Phil,” Merle says, finally getting the plastic off and tossing Daryl a can. Merle opens his own and takes a long drink, draining half of it in one go. Daryl suddenly wishes he'd brought out one can at a time. One thing he does not want to deal with tonight is a drunk Merle. Merle watches Daryl looking at his own can, running his hands over its chilled surface. “These people drugging you or something?”

“No,” Daryl scowls. “They're good people.”

“Definitely drugging you,” Merle mutters, taking another long sip. “You gonna drink that or jerk it off, Darylina?”

Daryl rolls his eyes and pops open the can, sipping it slowly. He rolls the familiar taste around on his tongue—acrid, cheap, piss-water, but as much a part of him as his own blood is. It's a miracle neither he nor Merle grew up alcoholics, with the parents they had. He supposes they show their addictions in other ways.

Merle looks like he's getting distracted by the TV. Daryl breathes out sharply, suddenly pissed again. “So what the fuck are you doing here?” Daryl asks. Merle opens his mouth, but Daryl talks over him. “And don't say it's for a fucking visit, ya could'a done that any time. What do you want?”

Merle snorts, sipping his beer. “Shit, bro, ya sure got ornery without me.”

“Merle.”

“Fine,” he says, rolling his eyes and putting his beer on the coffee table, thunking it hard enough to make his point. “I been drifting around, ya see, taking jobs where I find them.”

“Coke?”

Merle doesn't even grant him the decency of playing offended. “Meth, mostly. Got some new players, got some jockeying—plenty of room for ol' Merle to play all sides.”

“You're gonna get yourself killed, man.”

Merle chuckles. “Ain't the first person to tell me that, baby brother. Yet here I am.” He pauses, picking up his beer, taking a sip. It's almost dainty. “Am in some trouble, though.”

Even though Daryl expected it, he still feels his stomach sink.

“How much trouble?”

“Gotten out of worse before,” Merle says, like Daryl hadn't spoken. “These players talk the talk, but no one's got the balls the face up to ol' Merle face to face—“

“ _Merle_.”

Merle scowls. “No wonder your only friend's a twink,” he mutters. Daryl just stares at him. “It's just three, alright?”

“Three hundred?”

“Thousand.”

For a moment, he almost looks contrite.

Daryl blinks, stunned in spite of himself. “Merle, what the _fuck?”_

“These are big fucking players man! Go big or go home.”

“Or get your head blown off! Where the fuck you gonna get that kind of money? And don't look at me, I can barely afford the rent on this shithole.”

“Ain't the only provider in this family no more...”

Daryl frowns, wondering... and then he figures it out, and his scowl deepens. He shakes his head emphatically. “No. No, man, no fucking way are you getting that money from Hershel.”

“I'm part of the family too, ain't I? Don't these farmer types love giving to their kiddies?”

“He ain't Ronald fucking MacDonald, Merle, he doesn't have that kind of money to just throw around.”

“How do you know?”

“I—“

“Nah, really. How do you know?” Merle leans forward, pointing at Daryl with his beer. “He talk finances with you? Ya get all chummy over whiskey and cigars? He tell you a guy with that much land don't have 3k in the bank?”

“I ain't asking this for you, Merle. Get out of your own damn mess.”

Merle stares at him, blinking. He shakes his head slowly. “Damn, man, what happened to you? You got pussy teaching you _morals_ or some shit?”

Daryl flushes red. He tries to cover it with a swig of beer, but Merle notices. Of course he does.

“You do,” Merle says incredulously. He stares at Daryl, mouth working; then he leans his head back, laughing raucously. “Damn, Darylina, that must be one damn fine wick-dipper, got you talking like this!”

“Shut up, Merle!” Daryl near shouts.

“Daryl Dixon getting some,” Merle crows, grinning widely. He leans forward to pat Daryl hard on the back. “What skank you got going for your sorry—“

Merle trails off, his hand on Daryl's shoulder. They both turn, listening...

And they hear it again.

The sound of three firm knocks against the door.

“Fucking hell, Merle,” Daryl growls, throwing his arm off his shoulder, “Mrs. Weisz is gonna murder me, put that fucking smoke out.”

“You scared of some old landlady, brother?”

“Her husband was in the KGB,” Daryl grumbles, pushing to his feet. “She's seen shit.”

Merle grins. “That the pussy you been munching?” Daryl rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, walking towards the door. “You like them grey Polack beavers? Gotta get a mint on rent—though with your skills, don't know if that'd be worth much. Give ol' Merle a chance—“

“Merle. Shut up.”

Merle grins at him, making a V with his fingers and flicking his tongue between them. Daryl just glares at him. Merle stops after a few moments, chuckling to himself and draining the last of his beer.

Daryl continues glaring until he's sure the man's going to keep quiet. Then he turns towards the door, takes a deep breath, and opens it.

“Hey, Mrs. Wei—“

He trails off. Blinks. Blinks again. Nearly raises a hand to rub his eyes. Nearly shuts the door in her face. Nearly bowls over right then and there.

“Hey Daryl,” she says softly.

It isn't Mrs. Weisz.

It isn't Mrs. Weisz at all.

* * *

He knows he's staring; he knows it's been an embarrassingly long time since he  _started_ staring; he knows she's waiting for some sort of acknowledgement of her presence, an answer.

But he can't give it. For an embarrassingly long time Daryl is physically unable to do anything but stare.

He's forgotten things about her in these past few weeks, he realizes—the curve of her cheek isn't quite as round as he remembers it, the shade of her eyes a slightly different blue. Or maybe it's her that's changed, rather than her memory. Maybe she's grown older.

That thought Daryl stops. That thought Daryl stops right there.

“Sorry for just showing up like this,” she says. She's shifting uncomfortably under his gaze, eyes flicking between his, brow knit in embarrassed confusion. “I tried to call you, but I just got voicemail, so...”

She's wearing tennis shoes, he notices. It's safe to notice that, to wonder what that particular shade of pink is marketed as, if she bought them online or in the store, if they were on sale or a birthday present or just a splurge. They look fairly used, off-white laces more off than white, the pink scuffed and dirty. They don't look abused or anything; just well-worn, comfortable, good support for the rest of her.

The rest of her...

The rest of her. The long pale legs attached to those shoes. The straight line of her fibula, the slight flare of her knees before they vanish beneath her dress. The dress is yellow, some diaphanous fabric with a flower pattern over another, more solid, yellow. The neck dips low on her chest. The spaghetti straps leave small shadows on her skin in the wells around where her collarbone pushes them out. Her shoulders stretch to one side, her neck to another. She's wearing a necklace, a heart with a smaller heart inside it, going up and down with her breath. He can see her pulse ticking beneath her jaw, beneath her thin skin. He can see her lips, pulled briefly into her mouth, coming out redder, wetter, plumper than before. He can see her delicate hands, her long eyelashes, her perfect brows over round anxious eyes. He can see the thin white strap of her bra, lying beside and beneath the straps of her dress. Can see the way her small breasts swell beneath the fabric. Can see just a hint of nipple; or imagines it, sees it where he seeks it in the pattern.

“Uh, yeah,” Daryl says. He can barely speak, his throat is so tight. “Been having problems with that. Doesn't ring every time.”

He's still staring. He can't speak and he's still staring and she look so, so nervous.

“You—“

“I made—“

They both stop, blushing. Daryl gestures at her.

Beth bites her lip, then leans down to root around in her handbag. It takes her long enough that Daryl begins to wonder what exactly she keeps in that bag.

And then she's emerging with the biggest tupperware container Daryl has ever seen, filled with something brown and moist-looking. She smiles, tentative. She holds it out, like he has enough feeling in his hands to take it.

“I made you banana bread.”

Daryl blinks. Jerks his numb fingers. “Banana bread.”

“Yeah.” She pauses, lips working like she's mouthing the words before she says them. “I made two from the same batch,” she says, “and I tried the other one, so you don't have to worry if it's poisoned or something. It's good. Promise.”

She finishes with another small smile. When he doesn't return it, her mouth and her arm both drop a little.

“Just thought you'd like it. You know.” She bites her lip again. Daryl thinks she really, really needs to stop doing that. She blinks at him a few times, then seems to decide something; she rises to her full height, juts out her chin. Daryl braces himself. “Can I—“

“Come on, Darylina,” Merle crows from inside. They both jump, Beth's eyes going even wider. “Invite her in for pizza or something, for Christ's sake!”

“I, uh,” she says, looking between him and the sliver of apartment she can see between his body and the door. “I can come back, if it's not a good time.”

Daryl knows he should send her on her way. Should yell at her, for daring to show her face here. For making him show his face in this shitty hallway smells of mothballs when she lives in a fairytale. For looking at him with those sweet, wide eyes; not even beseeching, not even a question. Looking. Just looking. Like she'll accept whatever answer he gives, just because it's his.

He's screwed. He's been screwed for so long, but has only just come to learn it.

He's thinking about the smell of her fairytale house. Of her. Of it filling his apartment like cake swelling in a pan.

“No, uh,” Daryl says, his own mouth working around unspoken words. “Come in,” he says. “Come in.”

He hesitates, then steps aside, holding the door open for her. She smiles at him again, quick, shaky, before stepping inside.

Daryl stands a moment longer in the doorway, face to the hallway, feeling like he's on the cusp of a panic attack.

Wouldn't be the first time, around her.

With a deep breath, he closes the door, and turns around.

Merle has vanished, although Daryl thinks he hears him clunking around in the kitchen. Beth's still standing practically in the doorway, clutching the banana bread to her chest as she looks around. She tilts her head as she tries to see what's on the TV.

“You watch wrestling?”

Daryl blinks, glancing to the TV and back at her. “Uhh, I don't. Merle—“

“Hel-lo, Mrs. Landlady,” Merle drawls as he—oh lord, he emerges from the kitchen in just his wifebeater and jeans, beer can dangling from his fingers, leer rough and ready on his weathered face. “You're right on time to meet ol'e Merle—“

Merle freezes in his midstep, nearly falls before he rights himself. It would be comical if it were any other moment. He and Beth stare at each other and Daryl feels pieces of him flake off and crumble to the floor.

Merle drops his swagger, rolling his shoulders and clearing his throat. Daryl could swear his face is red. “Thought you said she was some old broad,” Merle says, continuing forward to flop into the armchair.

“This ain't—“ Daryl looks at Beth. She raises a hand to tuck a strand of loose hair behind her ear, fingers grazing her neck. Daryl loses his train of thought. He flounders. “This...”

“I'm Beth,” Beth says. She turns towards Merle with a sunny smile. Daryl almost feels jealous.

“Hershel's daughter,” Daryl mutters.

“Hershel's...” Merle purses his lips, tilts his head. He nods slowly. “Yeah. Looks about right.”

Beth doesn't seem phased by his scrutiny; just tilts her head right back. “And I'm guessing you're Merle, huh?”

Merle grins, then, broad and toothy, and spreads his arms. “The one and only, doll.”

Beth giggles. Daryl feels his eye twitch.

“I'll put that in the fridge,” Daryl mutters, grabbing the bread from Beth's arms and starting towards the kitchen. He's put in mind of a beetle scuttling out of a beam of light.

“Well, Miss Beth, pleased to make your...” Merle trails off, and Daryl pauses to glance at his brother. He thinks Beth must have done something—hiked her skirt up by accident and tucked more hair behind her ear or twinkled those damn eyes at him—or maybe Merle was just slow on the uptake today, and Daryl bristles, the words _she's seventeen, dickhead_ fluttering on his tongue—

—but Merle isn't looking at Beth.

Merle is looking at him.

“Nice to meet ya,” Merle finishes slowly. He narrows his eyes, then leaps from the chair, striding over to grab Daryl by the bicep. “'Scuse us, doll,” he throws back at Beth as he practically drags Daryl to his bedroom, “Just need a word with my brother for a minute...”

“Ok,” Beth says. She starts to say something else, but it's lost behind the closing door.

Daryl spins towards his brother.

“The hell is—“

Merle turns to him and Daryl freezes. He's staring at Daryl with a look Daryl has never seen before—brows furrowed and mouth set and he looks... he looks _concerned_. He looks like he thinks Daryl has lost his mind.

“Merle?”

“What. The fuck. Are you doing.”

Daryl frowns, shakes his head. “I don't know what the fuck you're—“

“You some sort of kiddie-fucker now?”

Daryl freezes. His mouth works, but for several moments no sound comes out. When he speaks, his tongue feels like it's swollen three sizes. “The fuck does that mean?”

“That kid looks fucking twelve—“

“She's seventeen—“

“—and you're here sprouting wood like Pinocchio!”

Daryl freezes again. His mouth works again. He wants to melt into the floorboards.

“The fuck you doing looking at my dick?” he finally manages to sputter.

Merle rolls his eyes. “How many titty bars we been to, man? I know how you walk when you're carrying.”

“That's still fucking weird—“

“You fucking that kid? That what she's here for?”

“N–, I... no! No, I ain't never touched her, I...”

But then he remembers her party. He's never touched her, but she's touched him. Once, only once, he realizes in amazement—when she put her hand on his arm to lead him into the living room, when he felt something of her life force flow into him, make him strong enough to weather those teenage stares.

And he remembers all those other times. All those times in the last few weeks when he touched himself when he wasn't bodiless; when she looked at him with her wide eyes; when her hand brushed through his hair or stroked his cheek or turned his head to make him watch her... he never touched her but she touched herself and he hasn't come in weeks and he hasn't slept much either.

So he looks at Merle, and he can't answer to him. He can't answer to him. Everything he has to say is fucked beyond belief.

“I'm dealing with it,” he mutters. He never could lie to his big brother.

“Bro. _Bro_.” Merle is shaking his head, still looking at Daryl like he's never seen him before. “All the girls to get your wood up for, and you choose _this_ one?”

“I know.”

“You do remember who her daddy is, don't you? Unless you lied to me about who the fuck he's _marrying_.”

“I _know_.”

“I been with some skanks—you know I been with some skanks—and this is a worse call than _all_ of them.”

“I fucking _know_ , Merle!” Daryl's mouth snaps shut as he realizes how loud he just was; both brothers glance at the door, listening. All they hear is the murmur of the TV.

Merle turns back to Daryl, expectant. Daryl tries to pretend he doesn't notice, but Merle's attention is like a wolf jaw around a rabbit—once it's got hold of something, it ain't about to let go.

Daryl exhales roughly, running his hands over his face. “It's just my fucking dick, man,” Daryl says. “Don't mean nothing.”

“Well you get a rein on that before daddy dearest has you running for the hills with a shotgun shell in your ass.” Merle searches Daryl's face. “How'd this even _start?_ Didn't even know you went for pussy like that; flat as a board, man.”

Daryl's about to protest—tell him about her tits dangling below her rolled up shirt, her nipples hard and plump and shimmering in the moonlight—how even in this demure dress he can see she's a handful, the perfect handful, and even if she were flat it wouldn't mean nothing if he could get his hands on her—

But he doesn't. Not because it would only dig him in deeper, although it would. Not because it would give Merle more ammo against him, more reasons to look at him like he belongs at the bottom of his shoe.

He doesn't want to tell Merle about that night. Doesn't want to tell him anything, about what's happened between them. It belongs to them, Daryl thinks, him and Beth—even if she doesn't know about all of it. Even if sometimes he feels like he needs another body to contain everything he's feeling, like the one he carts around isn't enough for her hair and her skin and her smiles. Won't ever be enough.

“Just happened,” Daryl mutters.

“Just _happened_ , Jesus _Christ_.”

Merle is pacing now, and Daryl realizes that Merle is upset. Merle is genuinely upset, in a way Daryl doesn't think he's ever seen him.

“The fuck's it matter so much to you?” Daryl asks. “Don't wanna be part of any of this, right?

“Not for a fucking minute,” Merle growls.

“Then what's the problem?”

“No problem, man, nothing at all.” Merle sucks loudly on his teeth, then spins on his heel to stick a finger in Daryl's face, forcing Daryl back a step. “You just watch yourself with these people, Darylina. You ain't got as much experience in the world as I do, but you trust me here, baby brother—folks like that'll make you their bitch in ten seconds flat. Seen too many men done in like that. Won't be a man by the time they're done with you.” Merle squints at him, screwing up his haggard face. “You still got your balls, boy?”

“I'm fucking hard, ain't I?” Daryl mutters.

Merle snorts. “Yeah, you joke now. Don't come back to ole' Merle whining 'bout how right I was.” Merle looks him over, then sniffs. “You need to work this out for yourself, baby brother.”

An old sort of panic surges up in Daryl, and he barely restrains himself from stepping forward as Merle moves away. His voice, when it comes out, is embarrassingly small.

“That ain't—you ain't just leaving again, are you?”

Merle freezes, looking at him, another unfathomable something in his eyes—then he shrugs, scratches his nuts. “I'll be around. Got a farmer to wiggle some dough out of.“

“I told you—“

“I'm fucking joking, jesus,” Merle growls. He stares at Daryl for a few more beats, then groans. “You know what, I need a fucking smoke and a blow job, 's what I need. And unless Bo Peep's got a thing for brothers, I don't think that's happening here. Her _own_ brothers, jesus _fuck_ man!”

“I told you,” Daryl growls, “I'm _handling_ it.”

“Mmhmm. Make sure you're the only one.” He looks at Daryl's crotch pointedly, then throws open the door before Daryl can reply. Not quite trusting Beth alone in a room with him ( _like Merle's the dangerous one here_ , Daryl thinks with despair), Daryl follows after.

Beth's still standing in the entryway. She raises her eyebrows quizzically when they appear, but Daryl avoids her gaze; he realizes he's still clutching the banana bread, and takes it to the kitchen, stuffing it in beside his groceries.

When he comes out Beth is giggling over something Merle said, her pretty brow scrunched, hand covering her mouth. She's got her eyes closed, and Daryl can see Merle looking at her; looking her over, he realizes, like he didn't when she came in because he thought she was a kid. But he knows better now, Daryl can tell; Daryl recognizes that appraisal in his eyes, his approval of her slight figure, her rounded hips. It doesn't make Daryl bristle, this time. It just makes his stomach sink.

“Well, I ought'a scat,” Merle says, grabbing his jacket from where he'd thrown it on the floor. “Y'all enjoy the pizza. Don't do anyone I wouldn't do, baby bro!” A beat goes, then two, Beth's eyebrows rising again; then Merle chuckles, disarming. “Aw, the fuck, you know what I mean.”

“See you, Merle,” Daryl grinds out.

“See ya, baby bro. And you, chickadee.”

“Good to meet you, Merle,” Beth says.

Then he's slamming the door and gone.

And Beth and Daryl are alone.


	8. I Wish I Had a River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl's been in a lot of dangerous situations in his life. But being left alone with Beth Greene? He isn't sure he'll make it out alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mary as always.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter, and remember to review!

When Daryl was in seventh grade there was a girl named Vanessa. Long brown lashes, hair in shimmering ringlets, pale pink skin that flushed from the wrong gust of wind. She lived not far up the street from him; not in the trailer park, but in the neighborhood alongside, in a tiny square split-level painted cornflower blue—blue like the sky, blue like the dresses she wore to school, collars carefully pressed, fabric swishing over long legs leading down to her Mary Janes. She was poor, but not poor like Daryl was poor—she was the kind of poor had pride in itself, believed in something better; spoke in hand-me downs and knitted socks with all the stains washed away. Daryl walked by her house every day to get to school and sometimes she would be in front of him and he would follow her the whole way, head down so if she glanced back she might not recognize him.

Everyone recognized him, though; there was never any danger of a Dixon going unnoticed, not in that town, not with Will Dixon roaring through streets and bars and women. Him with the wife burned the house down, the no-good kids growing up just like their pa; no, the town knew him. And they knew to keep away.

There were moments, though; moments when the sun shone through, when some inexplicable kindness would come his way. When people looked at Daryl and _saw_ him—saw _him_ , not his father, not his brother, not his name.

Those times made the rest of them so much worse.

Vanessa never saw him like that. She never turned around, never walked past her house to the other end of the street where a little boy was getting the skin whipped off his back. Never spoke to him in class, never passed him notes, never gave him her lunch when he had none, which was always. Never asked why he followed her and followed her and never looked up.

Daryl doesn't know why he thinks of Vanessa now, standing alone in his apartment with Beth Greene. Maybe it's the round eyes, the slim figure, the skin that seems to glow from within. Maybe it's the dreams he used to have, of Vanessa walking across the schoolyard and taking his hand. Sitting at his side. Leaning in just a touch, just so he knows she's there beyond the clasp of a hand, the shadow she casts beside his. Her long brown ringlets brushing his neck like butterfly wings.

He did not have these dreams often, and he did not think on them, for they were inexplicable. She never treated him different from anyone else who ignored him; didn't seem particularly bright, or gentle, or kind. She was a girl who lived up the street who wore clean clothes and whose father didn't smile with teeth made of knives.

She was a dream. A dream of what she wasn't, a dream of what couldn't be, a dream made of lies and clad in Mary Janes.

Beth's tennis shoes are scuffed and beaten; she has a bruise on her right knee, the dark of a mole beneath her left. The armpits of her dress are stained from deodorant, and her hair doesn't look like it's been brushed in a week. Her nails are painted in pink that is chipped and bitten, torn cuticles ringing the edge. He can smell her sweat from where he is, pungent and filling the room, overlaid with the kind of perfume you buy in drugstores. She is not wearing makeup and there is a sprinkle of acne across one cheek, tiptoeing across her skin like ant trails.

And Daryl nearly goes to his knees. Because she's real. She's so real, and she's here, and she's with him, and his neck aches after all these years staring at the ground.

He is staring at the ground now. He had held her gaze for a moment, two, after Merle left, but quickly thereafter took solace in the scuffed grey carpeting. Mrs. Weisz always claims she'll bring in a rug shampooer, take care of the stains; but she never has and Daryl has given up expecting it, and yet he feels disgusted with himself, that Beth Greene has to walk across this floor.

And he looks up and she's looking at him; blue eyes wide and anxious, mouth red and bitten, and Daryl's never seen something so beautiful in his whole life.

“Um... can I sit down?”

Her voice is shocking in the stillness of the room. Daryl stands blinking a few moments before he can understand the words well enough to repeat them to himself; and a few moments more, flushing in embarrassment that she's been in his apartment for ten minutes and has not felt allowed to sit down.

“Yeah. Yeah, 'course.”

Daryl hesitates, then moves jerkily towards the couch, gathering the beer bottles and cans that have spilled across the floor, tossing them onto Merle's half eaten pizza, feeling a sudden surge of anger towards his brother, for leaving this mess for him to clean up.

He doesn't realize his hands are shaking until her own stretch into view, sturdy and pale and soft-looking, to curl around a can just out of his reach. He looks up at her, and she is looking at him. Her lips stretch upwards. She offers him the can. He takes it without a word, skin humming where it brushes hers.

He straightens up carefully, weight heavy between his legs.

“Sorry. 'Bout Merle,” he says, watching her sit down on the beer-stained couch, tucking her legs beneath her so the fabric of her dress rides up above her knees. “He just dropped in. Didn't know he'd be here.”

“Don't be sorry. I'm glad I met him.” Beth tilts her head. “He isn't what I expected.”

Daryl snorts. “Just cause he ain't doing meth in the living room right now don't mean he don't do it.”

“No, no, no,” Beth says, “I mean... I thought he'd be like you. You know, quiet.”

Daryl snorts again; looks down. “Yeah,” he says, “Merle ain't quiet.”

“Ain't a bad thing,” Beth says, smiling. She tilts her head again, then pats the couch beside her. “You gonna sit or what?”

“I, uh. Alright.”

Daryl doesn't take the couch, but drops into the armchair, perching on the edge with his hands clasped between his knees. His leg starts bouncing, but he doesn't notice until her eyes flick down to it and he stops.

“So... haven't heard from you in a while, huh?”

Daryl feels his stomach sink, because that's got him bristling and he's too shattered right now to stop it.

“Nah. Nice break for you, huh?”

“Daryl,” she says, and he looks at her. She has a serious look on her face, solemn and still, and he feels trapped in the space between her eyebrows. “It wasn't.”

“Wasn't what?”

“Wasn't nice. Not at all.”

Daryl can feel his heartbeat in his temple.

“You didn't get any of my messages?”

“Didn't listen to 'em,” Daryl mutters, picking at a thread on his jeans.

“Ok,” Beth says softly. He doesn't look at her to see if the hurt in her voice is matched on her face.

“Been busy—“

“Daryl,” she says, and it's not at all like the last time she said it—now it's harder, with bite. Something that draws his gaze like a fish on the line. Her legs are curled but her spine is straight as a board, eyes hard as flint. He feels the spark of them fizzle along the line of his spine. “Don't bullshit me,” she says.

“What the fuck you want me to say?” he asks, trying to tamp down the anxious anger in his belly. “Want me to say I was ignoring you? Fine, I was. The fuck's it to you?”

“I want to talk to you about why.”

Daryl freezes. The pounding in his head has moved to his neck, thumping like it's ready to burst his jugular.

“Talk, then,” he rasps.

“What happened that night...” She trails off, mouth opening and closing like she's searching for words, grasping for them like a baby roots for a teat. “It wasn't right. Neither of us were right. I wanna talk about it.”

“It weren't my fault—“

“I miss my mom, Daryl,” she interrupts. She opens her mouth as if to continue, then closes it, bites her lip, looks down at her hands twisting in her lap. Daryl stares at her, lost. “I... I can't stop thinking about that Meg Ryan movie. The one with Tom Hanks, you know? Where they're two people who aren't supposed to be in love because of who they are, but they do it anyway?” Daryl shakes his head numbly. “Well... there's this line in it. She's hanging Christmas ornaments, thinking about the season, how sad it can be—and she says, 'I miss my mom so much I can barely breathe.' Or something like that. I don't know.” Beth swallows, looks at him through wide eyes. “But it's like that. For me. I don't talk about it, because after... I'm supposed to be over it. But I think I need to talk about it. To someone. It's like it's all caught in my throat—“

“Beth,” Daryl says. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

She blinks, and he could kick himself for how hurt she looks—but saying sorry won't make any of this make sense any faster.

“I'm just, I'm trying to say... I didn't mean I think my mom's better than yours, or anything. I promise I didn't. I just... I miss her. And Eleanor's amazing, and Daddy's so happy with her and she makes it feel like there's life in the house again, but... it ain't the same. You know?” Beth had been slouched a bit, looking past his shoulder; but now she sits up straight, looks him right in the eye, pins him in place sure as if she'd stuck knives through his sleeves. “But it was ugly, saying what I did. Especially when you were already upset. So I apologize.”

And the realization hits Daryl like a punch to the gut.

Beth isn't thinking about what he saw that night. She doesn't even know about it. She remembers that dinner and he remembers that dinner for very different reasons.

_You think I wouldn't trade my mama for yours any day of the week?_

He wants to run, to hide in his room and reorient himself, but her eyes hold him in place. There's steel in them, now, and he's as captivated by that as by his own upheaval.

“But it wasn't right either, what you did,” Beth says, speaking over Daryl's turmoil. “That's not something you can do. I know you'd never hurt me,” she says, leaning forward like he's supposed to believe her, “but trying to scare me like that... that's ugly too. And I wanna make sure you understand that.”

And Daryl feels the shame twice over. Because not only had he forgotten the things he'd done—what he said, how he loomed over her, thought of _hurting_ her—but here she is not blaming him one bit, and all these weeks he's been going to sleep with the dream of her nipples in his mouth.

Daryl swallows the bile in his throat, focusing on the bruise on her knee. He almost wants to ask where she got it; deflect the conversation away from himself. She's the interesting one of the two, anyway. She has a whole life—a family and friends and school, college to look forward to, a job, children and a husband...

And what does he have—pizza and beer cans.

But he can still feel her eyes on him, and he knows he has to make this right, in whatever small way he can. Almost wishes he had the courage to tell her about the other thing, the worse thing because she doesn't even know he's done it, doesn't know about the dozens of times and dozens of ways he's thought of fucking her—of just the essence of it, the slide of their skin, her voice husky in his ear, her smooth young body yielding beneath him. And he thinks about what Merle said, what Merle accused him of, and he can't help but wonder whether those moments on the porch and this seething desire are connected—that maybe some secret part of him _wants_ her mangled and broken, that dominating her like that was what set these monsters loose. That maybe he's just a kiddie fucker after all.

But he can still feel her eyes on him, and he meets them, and he sees no malice, no fear, and very little youth. And still the want for her sings like a church bell in his veins. Still she sits, waiting for his answer. Waiting for him to be better.

He wants to be better for her.

“Weren't right,” he mumbles. He glances up at her, hoping for guidance—she just continues to look at him. “I didn't... shouldn't'a done that. I wasn't thinking, didn't... just had to get out of there. But I won't...” Daryl swallows, his hatred for himself sunk deep in his gut. “Can't say it won't happen again, can't... but I don't want it to.” He forces himself to meet her eyes. She is, as ever, inscrutable. “I don't want to be that,” he says.

Beth doesn't say anything; just folds her hands in her lap, tilts her head, blinks slowly so she's looking at him through her lashes. Daryl's leg is jumping again.

Finally, something shifts; she slumps a little more, relaxes her mouth, and suddenly it seems as if this is not her first visit, but her hundredth; something about the slouch of her body against the couch, her pale skin against its stained grey, the way she doesn't bother to observe her surroundings, has eyes only for him—and for a moment he can pretend she's here for a better reason than she is. Pretends she just missed him—that he never yelled at her, never shoved her against the house, never saw her with her hand down her panties—that he's Daryl and she's Beth and they aren't quite siblings but they aren't far enough away from it for that to matter.

But there's something about the way she fits in his home, something that makes him understand a little better how easy it was for Merle to pick up on the situation. Maybe he's projecting; maybe the space has become an extension of his libido, maybe the couch arms are prepared to stretch from their moorings to fold around her, the legs of the table to trail up her bare calves, the paint to peel from the walls and coat her skin like lotion. Or maybe it's just her, the way she turns the everyday into something magical. That he isn't bending the space to her; she's bending it for him. To show him something. He doesn't know what, yet. But he sees.

And she's smiling now. His leg is still jumping but the movement has slowed and she's looking on him like something soft, like something admired, like what she came for is exactly what she got. That she didn't need an apology—didn't need the words that curl in his gut, that he's been told make him weak. She needed what he had to give, and no more.

“Ok,” she says.

Daryl squeezes his hands together so tightly the knuckles ache. “That it?”

Beth tilts her head more, a small crinkle running through the center of her brow. “You want me to leave?”

“No,” Daryl says. He pretends the word didn't come out quite as quickly as it did. “No, you... you can stay.”

“Good.” Beth shifts in her seat, clasping her hands too. She seems to decide something. “Actually,” she says; she almost looks nervous again, “I was wondering one other thing.”

“Yeah?” Daryl asks, forcing himself not to clear his throat.

Beth hesitates, then reaches into her bag, rummaging around until a quick smile darts across her lips. She comes out with a crinkled sheet of paper. She holds it out, and he takes it.

The colors are so bright, it takes him several moments of blinking for the words and images to make sense to him.

“The fuck's a 'cee-lid?'

Beth giggles. “A ceilidh,” she says, pronouncing it 'kay-lee.' “It's like a traditional dance party. I saw that flyer in the mall, and I thought, I dunno... thought you might be interested.”

Daryl looks at her, eyebrows raised. “Me?”

Beth shrugs. “Yeah, why not?”

“I look like a ballerina to you?”

Beth rolls her eyes. “It isn't ballet, Daryl. Not that you wouldn't look good in tights.” She's smiling and his cheeks are warming and he takes a moment to hide behind the flyer.

“You didn't have no one else to ask? What about that Jimmy kid?”

“Didn't want to ask Jimmy,” Beth says. Her cheeks are a little flushed now too. “Wanted to ask you.”

Daryl blinks at her, then looks at the sheet of paper. He doesn't recognize the name of the venue, but the address is for a street a few towns over. Which is good, he supposes; he isn't so worried about anyone recognizing him—it's not like he knows many people—but it would be better to go somewhere that Beth could go unnoticed...

He almost groans when he realizes he's already decided to say yes.

“Wanna go now?” he asks.

A small smile climbs up Beth's mouth. “If you do.”

Daryl shrugs, rolling his shoulders, not quite meeting her eyes. “Don't got nothing better to do.”

She's full on grinning now. He feels his stomach flutter at the shine of every tooth.

“Nope. You sure don't.”


	9. If It Weren't For Your Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl misses what it was like: just to be with Beth, without all these complications. And it isn't like a few hours out with her will make them go away.
> 
> But maybe he can accept them. For a little while. Maybe for tonight they can just be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been feeling horrible this weekend, but I'm glad I'm able to get this up at least. Reviews always make me feel better :)
> 
> Chapter title and song lyrics are from "Falling" by Kate Rusby. I was originally going to use "Old Man" by The Wailin' Jennys (such a Bethyl song my gosh), but I felt that something more Gaelic-inspired was more appropriate. And I needed an excuse to listen more comprehensively to Kate Rusby anyway.
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

The ride over is quiet—quieter than Daryl expected, knowing Beth. Maybe even knowing himself around Beth. And while he's surprised at how disappointed he is at all the quiet, it's a good space for him to breathe, collect his thoughts; even if they remain somewhat scrambled, as they can't help being, in proximity to her.

She has her window cranked halfway down and she's leaning against it, temple to the edge and forehead outside the car. He feels an irrational urge to tell her to get herself inside—has a dozen scenarios running through the back of his mind, all ending with her scalp scraped across the road. But he calms himself—tries to focus on the road ahead, and not the way the hairs that have come loose from her ponytail sway in the breeze; not the way her eyelashes flutter, or her lips move, as if she's mouthing words. Whatever she's saying is lost to the wind, but in the moments Daryl glances over, he can't help trying to read them.

He knows that the probability of her getting injured is higher the more he looks at her, but he can't help it. In the back of his mind is the memory of the fantasy he had only hours ago, in this very car—of Jimmy's hands turning into his; of touching her breasts, her clit, rolling in the hay like a couple of kittens with far less innocence. Now as then, he feels a stirring response between his legs as he imagines her hand over his, guiding his fingers—but unlike then, the sensation doesn't overtake him. He's been half-hard since she showed up on his doorstep, and he wants her, desperately; but something about having her in the room as his fantasies wander grounds him, reminds him that she exists outside his drifting mind. Reminds him that _he_ exists, that he is not a being made only of neurons firing, of cock and skin. And the world exists with them. The smell of the woods they roll past. Exhaust from the cars ahead of them. The squeak of the cheap upholstery, the pressure of the seat belt. The ribbons of red wrapped around the sky like a present, their colors brilliant, a gift in themselves.

“Good day tomorrow,” he says. He didn't make a conscious decision to talk, but it doesn't bother him when it happens; getting out of the apartment, even into this more confined space, has him a bit softer, looser, feeling less like a sealed dish in the microwave and more like someone's poked a few forks in him, let out some steam. He doesn't even tense up, beyond a shiver through his scalp, when she turns her attention on him.

“How do you know?” she asks, voice raised a bit to overcome the wind.

Daryl nods at the sky. “You know the saying, right? Red sky at night, all that.”

“That's actually true?” She has her elbow up on the bit of door beneath the window; leans her cheek on her palm as she looks at him. Something in the casualness of the pose has him wanting to smile.

He doesn't though, beyond a twitch of his lips that he easily covers with a shrug. “Dunno. Far's I can tell.”

“Hmm.” Beth twists her head to look out the windshield, observes the sky. “Wish it told us more than just the weather. You know, like you can tell from the color of the sky whether you'll wake up in a good mood or wanting to drown yourself in the shower.”

Daryl grunts something not quite a chuckle. “It'd be useful.”

“You could cancel plans ahead of time too. 'Whoops, sky's the wrong color, can't take the test tomorrow, Mr. Taylor.'” Beth scrunches her nose. “Oh, ew. I have a test on Monday. Dangit, I wanted at least one night not thinking about it.”

Daryl does chuckle now, a few short puffs out his nose. “What subject?”

 _“Math,”_ Beth says, with so much disgust in her tone that Daryl chuckles again.

“Thought you were good at that.”

“I am,” she says; not smugly, just stating a fact. He remembers her in the kitchen, copying over her notes in neat, multi-colored script. He doesn't doubt it for a second. “Doesn't mean I like exams, though. Especially Mr. Taylor's; lord, if he didn't give a curve we'd all be failing that class.”

“You ever failed anything?”

“No.” Beth glances at him. “Well, there was that thing in kindergarten.”

Daryl's eyebrows jerk up. “Didn't even know they had grades in kindergarten.”

“Oh they didn't, not really. Just end of year reports they gave the parents.” Beth smiles crookedly. “Mama used to tell the story all the time. I was a real brat. There was one day they didn't have brownies to go with lunch and I snuck out of class to yell at the principal.”

Daryl snorts, forgetting the road for a moment to look at her incredulously. “You ain't serious.”

Beth nods, expression one of laughing at herself. “Tried to convince my friends to come with me, but even they thought I was crazy. Jimmy'd eaten three worms on a dare the day before and he wouldn't fight for his own right to chocolaty goodness.”

“Asshole,” Daryl says, with a little more ire than he means to. Beth doesn't seem to notice, though, just chuckles along with him.

“Don't think I knew that word back then, but yeah, he was.”

Daryl wants to ask more—she's clearly known Jimmy her whole life, or at least most of it; in what capacity has she known him? She was dating someone else when she and Daryl met ( _she could be dating someone new now_ , Daryl realizes with a thump of dread, and he has to bite his tongue so he doesn't ask her about it straight out), but the way Jimmy'd looked at her... that went beyond just dating. The kid was infatuated with her.

 _Who wouldn't be?_ Daryl thinks. The thought comes out more wry than hysterical, and he decides to take that as a victory.

“You ever been to one of these things before?” Daryl asks as they pass the sign announcing the town the venue is in.

Beth nods. “Few times. Mama loved them. Usually just went with Daddy for date nights, but sometimes they took us.” A small smile flutters across Beth's lips. “Maggie'd go around looking for cute boys, but I usually just danced with Shawn. He was horrible at it—two left feet, always stepping on my toes.” Beth looks out her window, still leaning her cheek on her hand. When she speaks she sounds far away. “That's how I remember him, usually. Whirling me around that dance floor and smacking me into pillars.”

Daryl would chuckle at the image if she didn't sound so sad, and he glances at her. He remembers uneasily the things he had shouted at her on the porch—it's been coming clearer and clearer to him since she reminded him it happened, and he doesn't know if that's a blessing or a curse—remembers the beginning but especially the end, when he accused her of forgetting about her dead family members in favor of taking his. He realizes that he knows next to nothing about her brother, beyond his name and that he died around the same time her mama did. He resolves to ask her about him, someday.

“Well, still taking a brother with you. That's something, at least.”

Daryl sees her scrunch her nose from the corner of his eye—he hopes in discomfort, he hopes in disgust, to hear him equating himself with Shawn. She did say she didn't think of him as a brother; the stronger that feeling is, the less disgusting he believes himself.

Daryl's eye catches on their exit, and he eases them off the highway. They've fallen back into silence, but as usual, it is not an uncomfortable one. Beth is still leaning on her hand, looking out the window; Daryl is still sitting in his seat, looking at her _(far too much)._

He's never known a feeling like this, like his eyes are pulled to her as if by magnets. He wonders, if they were on opposite sides of the world, whether he could still turn and point to her as if she were her own due north. It makes driving highly dangerous, he knows; but it also relaxes him, to see her sitting there, herself quiet and calm, again mouthing silently into the breeze. Her dress has dragged a ways up her legs, but it's easier than he expected it to be not to focus on that. He still has her hair tangling around her, the glow of the sun on her skin, the way her eyes light up as the venue comes into view. It's enough to keep his cock going—hell, just the thought of her can do that—but, in many ways, it's also just... enough. Enough to be near. Enough to share the world with someone like her.

 _Not someone like her,_ he thinks. _Her. Just her._

She's out the truck before he has time to round it to open the door for her, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her meditative mood from the car ride is gone, replaced by a thrumming excitement.

“You ready?”

He shrugs, playing nonchalant. He still can't help the way his mouth twitches in answer to her own sunny smile.

“Your party, girl.”

Her smile softens a little, like it's becoming intimate, just for him, and his heart begins to pound—but then she's tucking her stray hairs behind her ears and heading forward boldly, leading the way into the building.

The Moonshiner is fairly nondescript on the outside—just one in a row of storefronts, windows lined with standard bottles of alcohol.

The inside, however, is a whole other atmosphere.

A wall of sound hits Daryl as he steps over the threshold, but it isn't like the one he encountered at the house party he rescued Beth from. That one was cloying, pounding, sick with the delirium of teenage hormones, bass slicing a line straight through his ribcage. He feels the same sense of abandon here as he felt there—of daily being and daily lives being flung away. But where at the party he had felt oppressed, punched in the gut by the force of that expulsion—here, he steps inside, and is buoyed along on the wings of a fiddle. The music swirls instead of stabs, reaching around his body like winding vines to tug him gently in through the scent of alcohol and old wood.

He keeps one eye on Beth as he looks around. The bar stretches along the wall perpendicular to the entrance, with booths marching away from the door in the other direction, curling along to the opposite wall. The floor space within the rough rectangle is filled with circular cabaret tables. A few of the booths and tables are full, but many lay vacant—looking past the tables, it isn't hard to see why.

The dance floor is about double the size of the rest of the place, with a raised stage at the back where four men in kilts play their instruments with enthusiasm while one of them shouts out dancing instructions. The floor itself is packed—by people of all ages, it seems. He sees a woman of about 70 doing high steps in a tartan skirt; across from her is a child that can't be more than eight, with more gaps than teeth in his smiling mouth. Most of the crowd, though, looks about Beth's age, a little older; and he realizes quickly why they need to be. The music is fast, the instructions rigorous, and he feels a burst of respect for that old woman, that she's able to keep up.

Beth has stopped a few steps into the entryway, and Daryl comes up to stand beside her, waiting patiently for her to finish her observation, watching her out of the corner of his eye. Her eyes are bright and wide, and as he watches a smile climbs up her cheeks. He looks at her mouth, at the top of her head, hair glowing in the healthy lighting, and he feels something in him loosen and drift up towards the sky.

Daryl leans down a little to speak in her ear.

“Find us a booth, I'll get us drinks.”

It takes a few moments for Daryl's words to sink into Beth's brain. She turns to him, smile falling into something perplexed. “You do remember I'm 17, right?”

Daryl shrugs, not tempering the smile that chooses to inch up his face. “So?”

Beth raises her eyebrows. “You know that providing alcohol to a minor is a criminal offense, Mr. Dixon.”

Daryl leans closer, smiling wide enough that his teeth flash. “You gonna arrest me?”

She gives him a strange look; still smiling, but like she's trying to figure something out, figure him out. A few minutes ago he might have shrunk away from it, hid in fear; but something about this place makes him feel different, makes him feel free. Like they're just two people without family or years between them, looking to bring each other joy.

And that's exactly what he wants for her, Daryl thinks; joy. He wants that smile on her face.

“What do you want?” he asks.

Beth's still looking a little apprehensive, chewing her lip; but he can see her talking herself into it, and waits patiently.

“I don't know,” she finally says. “My mama liked peach schnapps...”

Daryl snorts. “Schnapps is a pussy drink.” Beth raises her eyebrows, but doesn't reprimand him. “C'mon Greene, something better.”

She rolls her eyes. “Does cider fit your strict criteria, Mr. Dixon?”

Daryl makes a show of looking put out, rolling his own eyes. “Anything is better than schnapps, girl. Go on and get a seat.”

“I have money—“

Daryl shakes his head. “Greene. Scat.”

She rolls her eyes again, but she listens to him, heading towards one of the booths beneath the window. Daryl waits to make sure she gets there before turning to the bar.

He's sure the bartender saw him walk in with a very underage looking Beth, but with such a varied crowd and the lack of an entrance fee, Daryl isn't surprised when she doesn't question him buying two drinks. She's swamped as it is—a song had ended while he and Beth were talking, leaving half the dance-floor to swarm the bar.

It takes him over ten minutes to get their drinks, and he's a bit apprehensive as he walks back that she might have up and left. But after maneuvering far enough through the crowd, his eyes lock onto her without difficulty. He lets out a breath, and walks forward.

She'd gotten a notebook out while he was away at the bar, and is currently hunched over it, writing furiously with a pen topped by a bright purple pom-pom. When she glances up and notices his approach, her face twists in an a faintly guilty expression; she shoves the book and pen into her bag, sitting back as if they didn't exist. Daryl is curious what's got her so twitchy, but not enough to ask. He just slides into the other side of the booth, setting his beer in front of himself and sliding the cider across the table, causing a little to slosh over the side.

“Straight from the tap,” he says, nodding in approval.

Beth's eyeing the pint like it's something fit to punch her in the face; she looks at Daryl, eyebrows scrunched. “That's good?”

Daryl snorts. “Jesus, girl, the fuck they teaching in school these days?”

Even through her concern, Beth's mouth quirks into a one-sided smile. “Abstinence-only education, mostly.” She doesn't give Daryl time to dwell on those words; just wraps her hands around the pint, sliding them up and down a few times, gathering condensation. She looks at Daryl, and he nods in encouragement. Neck tensing, she leans forward to put her lips against the edge of the glass, tilting the pint to take a dainty sip.

She pulls back with a look of such disgust that Daryl actually laughs.

“That's disgusting,” she says. “It just tastes like... like rotten apple juice.”

“That's what it is,” Daryl says, taking a sip of his beer. It isn't especially high end, but after the shit he'd opened with Merle it's like drinking Merlot. Or at least, what he expects Merlot to taste like. He licks his lips, leaning back in the booth and nodding at her again. “Keep going. It gets better the more you drink.”

Beth grimaces. “I bet it does,” she mutters. But she does take another sip, and then after a moment a bigger one, and slowly her expression slides from disgust to consideration. “It isn't that bad actually.”

“We'll make an alcoholic of you yet.” Beth gives him a flat look, but not one with enough anger to make him feel bad; he just smirks and leans back in his seat, watching her take her dainty little sips like a kitten lapping at milk. “This the first time you've had cider?”

Beth looks at him strangely. “First time I've had anything.”

Daryl blinks at her. “Thought you were seventeen.”

“Yeah,” she says, “and my dad's an alcoholic. You think he's gonna let any of us drink?”

“And you listen to him?”

“Yeah,” Beth says, like it's the simplest thing in the world. When Daryl continues to stare at her, she chuckles uncomfortably. “What, it's really that weird?”

“No,” Daryl says. “No, just...” He flounders, sets his beer on the table to steady himself. “Didn't know.”

“Don't worry,” Beth says with a smirk, “You can corrupt me all you want. I won't tell.”

Before Daryl can even hope to respond, she grabs up her glass and takes a few big gulps, only grimacing a little, before setting it on the table with a loud clink.

“C'mon,” she says, sliding out of the booth and leaping to her feet. She goes over to Daryl's side, close enough that the skirt of her dress brushes his arm. “Let's dance.”

She holds her hand out expectantly. Daryl blinks at her, then shakes his head, a bit frantically. “Nah, no.”

Beth's face falls a little, but her hand doesn't waver. “Please? I thought that's what we came for.”

“I came...” Daryl trails off, because what can he say? He didn't come to fucking dance, he knows that—but he didn't come to buy her her first drink either. He didn't come to see her small, soft hand hovering palm open, waiting for him. What did he come for?

He came to be near her, he thinks. He came because he's guilty.

He came because the monster in him didn't disagree.

“You go,” he says. “I'll be here.”

Her hand falls, and he knows he isn't imagining the look of disappointment on her face, even if he doesn't fully understand it—but she seems to get that he isn't budging on this.

“Ok,” she says. A smile quirks her lip, and he almost believes it isn't forced. “Keep that glass full for me, though, ok?”

Daryl snorts softly. “Yes, ma'am.”

She smiles again, a little softer, then turns and winds her way through the tables.

She reaches the floor and vanishes from Daryl's sight just as the next song begins. He can't see her from here, beyond the flash of her blonde hair as she stands in a line—but still he doesn't turn away. He sits with his hand curled loosely around his beer, eyes drawn, again, as if to a magnet, heart thumping to the hearty tune that rises, the stamp of feet and clap of hands that follow along.

* * *

He doesn't know how long they stay at the Moonshiner—a few hours, at least—and he doesn't move from his seat except to refill the drinks. Doesn't try to watch her, doesn't try to join; he sits on that bench like his ass is attached to it and lets his mind wander to nothing at all.

It isn't nothing. It wanders to her. It imagines himself having the bravery—or the stupidity—to join her in her dance. It takes the image of her, the times she comes over for a break—stumbling from the dance floor, mouth stretched wide in a breathless smile, sweat-soaked chest still heaving as she collapses into her seat, downs a few gulps and catches her breath. Daryl avoids her eyes when she comes back, focuses on his own beer—doesn't look at the beads of sweat sliding beneath the collar of her dress, the spaghetti strap hanging unconcernedly from her shoulder, revealing a small pink bow on the white strap of her bra. He doesn't look at her eyes bright and avid, doesn't pay attention to the way they rake across his face—the rest of him, as she grows drunker, grows bolder. But she respects his silence—sits across from him as if they were strangers, she drinking her drink, he sipping his, in each other's orbit only so long as the music desists.

It takes her missing the bench and slamming into the table to wake him from his stupor.

“Beth,” he says, frowning at her where she slumps collapsed over the tabletop, a bright, dumb smile gracing her face. “The fuck are you doing?”

“I'm dancing, silly,” she slurs, and Daryl realizes with a feeling like quicksand that he's just gotten seventeen year old Beth Greene pissing drunk.

“Jesus christ,” he mutters, sliding his beer away and lunging across the table to take her cider before she can get to it. “I'm taking you the fuck home now, Beth.”

Her eyes widen and a hand shoots out to grab his wrist. Her grip is clammy and surprisingly strong. “No, no, no, no,” she says, seeming to forget that one would have sufficed. She's still lying with her cheek pressed to the table. “I can't... we...” She scrunches her brow, searching for the words. Daryl raises his eyebrows. “I can't go _home_.”

“The fuck you talking about?” Daryl growls.

“Daddy'll _kill me_.”

And Daryl freezes. Because she's right. Even if he could somehow sneak her inside, there's no way to hide the smell of booze and sweat, not to mention the hangover she's sure to have in the morning. Daryl groans aloud, just barely resisting dropping his head into his hands.

“Alright. Alright, I'll take you to my place. Jesus fuck, Beth.”

“Don't blame me, you... you big blamer man.”

She begins to giggle madly, and if Daryl weren't so panicked, he's sure he'd find it adorable. As it is, it only makes him scowl harder. He realizes she's still holding his wrist and he tries not to think about it.

“C'mon, girl,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. He'd only gotten through two beers, and it takes half a moment to push away the buzz he feels fuzzing around his temples. He looks at Beth, still sprawled across the table, and tries to remember how much she's had. With a sinking feeling, he realizes he doesn't actually know.

“C'mon,” he says again, jerking the arm still attached to his. “I gotta carry you?”

“What if you do?” she asks. As she does, she peeks at him over her shoulder, straightening her legs where they had been loose beneath her. The action suddenly brings her ass into his line of sight, and for a moment he's lost in it—the fabric stuck by sweat to the tops of her thighs, her panty-lines stark against the pulled-tight fabric. If he moved over just a step, he might be able to see...

He wrenches himself out of her grip and puts her in a hold of his own, circling her entire bicep with one hand and yanking her to her feet.

“Owwww,” she whines, attracting more than a few sets of eyes.

“Don't be a pussy,” Daryl mutters, with no real heat; he circles around behind her so he can take hold of both her arms, steering her rapidly towards the door.

“Better be careful, Daryl,” she sing-songs as they side-step a frowning couple. Her voice drops several octaves and slows to a crawl. “People will think you're... _up to something_.”

“Jesus fucking christ,” Daryl mutters.

Finally, they reach the door and he bursts through it, emerging into the darkened parking lot. Daryl takes a moment to slow down. He still holds Beth's arms to steady her, but loosens his grip and tilts his head back, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly. When he opens them, Beth is looking at him over her shoulder, eyes wide and over-bright.

“What are you looking at?” he asks with a scowl.

She smiles, lighting up her flushed cheeks. “You're taking care of me,” she murmurs.

Daryl stares at her—far closer than he thought she had been a moment before, looking up at him with the stars in her eyes, pale skin glowing beneath the parking lot lamps. She leans back to rub her cheek on his chest and Daryl's heart gives a painful beat.

“C'mon,” he forces out.

Beth smiles up at him again, but doesn't resist as he steers her towards the truck. She has difficulty pulling herself up, and Daryl hovers behind her, praying he won't have to give her a push—but eventually she manages it, collapsing into her seat with a giggle as Daryl shuts the door.

She's struggling with the seatbelt when Daryl gets himself in, and since she's already holding it on his side of her body, he doesn't feel uncomfortable taking it from her and buckling her in himself. The smile she gives him afterwards makes his cheeks flush, but not in a bad way. Not at all.

“You've fucked up my whole life, you know that?”

Beth frowns, rolling her head against the head rest until she has it pressed flat to her cheek. “I didn't mean to,” she says softly.

Daryl exhales, looking away from her and out the window. A few people from the Moonshiner have emerged and seem to be looking at his truck. Daryl swallows and puts it in gear.

He's driven with more drink in him than this, but still he goes slowly, watching carefully for cop cars. Beth is quiet for most of the ride, a fact Daryl is glad of. He doesn't know what he would do, hearing more of that drink-slurred voice, piercing in its sincerity when she is already so earnest. She's turned her head away from him, resting against the seat the same way, but with the opposite cheek pressed to it, gazing out the window. For a while he thinks she's asleep—from the corner of his eye he sees her breaths deep and even, her hands still in her lap. It isn't until he's pulling into a parking spot outside his place that he hears her quiet voice begin to rise.

_You hear me shout when no one's about_   
_You find me where I can't be seen_   
_I feel the air flowing for life's in full swing_   
_So tell me why I cannot breathe_

She trails off, letting silence ring in the car. After a few moments, she rolls her body in one sinuous wave, turning over to face him again. Her eyes are no longer round, but heavy lidded; her lips slightly parted beneath flushed cheeks, breathing visibly as she blinks at him.

“We going inside?” she asks. Her voice is deep and throaty. Daryl swallows, tongue heavy in his mouth. As he stares at her, she looks down and begins fumbling at the belt. Just as he's about to help her she gets it open and reaches for the door handle.

“Wait,” he says. He pauses to be sure she listens before leaping out of the truck, jogging around the hood to get the door for her and help her down. Again, his hand goes around her bicep, supporting her as she levers herself down so gracefully it looks like she's floating. When she's safely on the ground she looks up at him again. Her shoulder is pressed firmly to his chest, his hand still around his arm. Her eyes put him in mind of a dog's—wide, open, intelligent, trusting. He could do whatever he wanted with her and she wouldn't lift a finger to stop him.

Daryl sucks in a deep breath, and steers her towards his apartment.

He feels like he doesn't release that breath until they're safely inside, and doesn't relax until he's locked the door with a click. He slumps against it, rubbing his eyebrows as he watches Beth make a beeline for his bedroom.

“Christ,” he says softly, closing his eyes and letting his head thump back against the door. Although they're no longer in danger of being caught, unless someone decides to come calling—he has a sudden spike of fear as he imagines his mother showing up at his door to find a very inebriated Beth emerging from his bedroom—his heart is still thumping hard, his breath still coming harsh. And he realizes how tired he is. Tired of this insecurity, tired of this fear, tired of his thoughts spinning through his head like hayseed in a twister. He remembers, barely remembers, those times he and Beth had been together before all this—in her hallway, in her kitchen, outside the party, with her friends—how easy it had been, just to be with... just to be. No matter the confusion he felt around her—and she confused him, she always confused him, just by being interested in whatever the fuck he had to say, the inconsequential things he was thinking—he never felt like she wanted him to be anything in particular. She wanted to know him as he was.

He was never something he would be proud of her knowing, but he doesn't think it would have made him sick, her finding him out. Her learning him, her explaining him back to himself like he was a chapter she could flip through. But he imagines her seeing inside his head now, and...

And he's got a drunk teenager in his bedroom and he's fucking tired.

Breathing out, Daryl makes his heavy way to the bedroom, ignoring the pizza beginning to smell on the coffee table in favor of stepping up to the doorway.

He lingers beneath the frame as he watches her. She's sitting crosslegged and barefoot in the center of his bed, jerking around as she struggles to get her bra off without removing her dress.

A strip of pink fabric winks at him from between her legs. He closes his eyes.

“Daryl?”

Daryl looks at her. She's succeeded in her task, and holds a small white bra in her lap as she gazes at him.

“Yeah?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Can I sleep here tonight?”

Daryl breathes out, rubs his jaw. “Yeah, lemme just get some pants and I'll get out of here—“

“No, I mean...” She bites her lip, but doesn't look away from him. “With you.”

It's a bad idea. Daryl knows with every fiber of his being—every scar on his back, every hair on his head, every thought he has ever shared with this brilliant girl—that it's a bad idea. She's sitting there without a bra in her pretty pink panties asking him to share her bed.

And he's tired.

“Yeah,” he says.

Beth smiles, then looks down at her lap, plucking at her dress. She glances up at him. She seems shy, suddenly, and he wonders if she's sobering up.

“You have a shirt or something...”

Daryl nods. “Yeah.” He crosses the room to his dresser, trying to keep his eyes on his task, off of her; he roots around for a few moments until he finds one of the many versions of the t-shirt Aaron had at one point meant to use to market the garage. Daryl had made it clear how dumb it would be to spend money merchandizing a garage with two fucking employees, and eventually Aaron agreed; but he still needed something to do with the first batch of shirts. Daryl'd given most of them to charity, but his ma convinced him to keep one, for sentiment's sake.

He tosses the thin navy shirt to Beth without really looking at her, turning around to find himself something to sleep in and trying to ignore the rustle of fabric as she changes. He himself usually sleeps in his boxers, but he sure as fuck isn't doing that now; he finds another old t-shirt and a pair of holey sweatpants, and takes them into the bathroom.

When he emerges, Beth is already tucked under the sheets, coverlet pulled up to her chin. He can see the outline of her legs pulled tight to her body. She looks tiny, this little ball of her. As he gets closer he sees that her hair is down, tucked neatly into the curve of her neck. Her eyes are closed but when she hears his step they flutter open. She definitely looks more sober now, and he doesn't know if that should comfort him or not. It means that she'll be less likely to do something dangerous without thinking; but if she's sober and she still wants to share this bed with him, that means...

It means nothing, he thinks harshly. _She's seventeen. She's never drank before. She doesn't know what she's doing._

She sure looks knowing, though, as she watches him approach with something... not quiet apprehension, but not quite calmness either. He drops his boots by the bed and pulls back the edge of the coverlet to sit, rubbing his hands harshly across his face.

He doesn't realize he's been sitting like that for some time until he hears her quiet voice from behind him.

“Daryl?”

“Yeah?” he grunts.

“You ok?”

Yeah, he definitely liked her better drunk.

He sniffs in loudly and swings himself under the covers, shutting the bedside lamp and lying down as far from her as the bed will allow, turned on his side away from her. Once he's settled, he holds his breath, trying to hear her; he hears nothing, and he realizes she's holding her breath too. As he listens, she exhales slowly. She's far enough away that he couldn't possibly feel the gush of it on his skin; nevertheless, the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he shifts deeper under the sheets, curling his arm under his cheek to serve as a pillow.

“Daryl?” she says again. He doesn't give her a word this time, just a grunt. There is the sound of fabric shifting as she burrows herself in. “You don't have another pillow?”

“'M fine,” he says. “Go to sleep, Beth.”

She goes quiet, no sound but the quiet gusts of her breath. Daryl hasn't shared a room with anyone except his ma and brother in his life, let alone his bed; he's used to their heavy breathing bothering him, keeping him awake. Beth's breathing is no lighter, yet it's more soothing than Daryl would have expected.

But still, he lies with eyes open. Staring into the dark. Wondering what a mess he's made of things.

He thinks she's long asleep when she speaks again.

“Daryl?”

“What?” He tries to snap, but it comes out softer than he means it to.

Daryl hears the shifting of sheets, and he realizes she's shuffling closer to him. He waits, heart pounding—but she doesn't touch him. Just lies there again in silence, staring at him in the dark.

“Please don't leave me again.”

Daryl shuts his eyes.

He rests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably know where this is going ;)


	10. To Tell the Truth, I'd Rather Drown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl's spent so long fighting. Fighting his father, fighting life, fighting this.
> 
> Maybe it's time to let those fights go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating change ;)
> 
> *kisses everyone*

Daryl complains—more to himself than to others, but he complains—about the state of his apartment; calls it a shithole, a waste of space, a place he'd be glad to see the back of. He knows he exaggerates, knows it's better than nothing; knows, realistically, that it's one of the best places he's ever stayed. But still. Maybe it makes him feel better, to focus on what it lacks, rather than make it any real type of home.

Yes, he exaggerates. But the one thing he feels he has a right to complain about is the temperature. There are no individual thermostats. Mrs. Weisz controls the central heat and A/C; and since she's started going through menopause, she keeps the cold air blasting far past the point it's needed. Daryl's used, at this point, to waking up curled in on himself, goosebumps running up and down his arms. Begrudgingly appreciates it, in fact, for the energy it gives him to jump out of bed and prepare for the day, where otherwise there are some mornings that his limbs feel heavier than the sum of the Earth.

He is used to waking up cold.

Today Daryl wakes to warmth.

* * *

He comes to slowly, one body part at a time.

Head, resting comfortably on his threadbare pillow; his arms, one almost numb under some sort of pressure, the other moving gently up and down; his chest, expanding slowly and steadily, the weight upon it slowing his heartbeat; his legs, strangely immobile, something wet pressed against his thigh.

He is warm, and wearing more than his boxers, and for several minutes he cannot convince himself it is any more than a dream. Not a typical dream—not a surreal swirl of pain and hurt and men's mocking voices—but not reality either. It feels like those things he imagined in his piss-soaked bed with Merle, hand around his dick and eyes screwed tight in concentration, seeking that edge, the thing or two he'd found to make him hard—those secret corners of his pop's dirty magazines, the filler pages of limbs tangled in each other, soft focus and hazy light and a strange tenderness that made Daryl's balls ache—and they're aching now, he realizes with a sense of detachment; a sharp sort of ache, more intense than the one he'd carried since that night in Beth's bedroom—

The mass beside him shifts, a muffled sigh bubbling up as it presses closer to him, wrapping a band around his stomach and tightening on the wet spot on his sweatpants. He feels the dampness spread and a soft groan rumbles from his chest, vibrations skating through a throat with something silky rolling across it, almost as if he is being nuzzled. The bands around his legs constrict again in a rolling motion. His own body responds, hips arching up into empty air as he rolls closer, arms tightening and a sigh passing his lips as his dick finally finds purchase, first against the taut scratch of his sweatpants and then something soft, something that yields as he rocks into it, something that gasps as his hand sinks into the silk against his throat.

Something feels different, almost enough to shake him awake—but he doesn't want to leave yet. And when moments later the body beside him relaxes again he himself lets out a sigh, holding tight and pressing his thigh up into the wetness until the thing beside him whimpers, curls more fully around him. Daryl likes that; he wants more of that; he rolls a little until he can actively press into the sticky damp, roll his thigh as he rolls his hips into the softness; feels it tremble as something presses into the back of his head, slides down to his neck, circles the knob of his spine.

He doesn't know what brings him awake, in the end, for nothing much changes; the thing beneath him is moving more, perhaps; is making more noise as his dick hardens against it, as his weight presses it down to the bed, as his breathing grows harsh and the roll of his hips gain intent.

All he knows is that as he comes to, he has a few moments of profound disorientation; the sense of hovering outside of himself, disconnected from his body in a way far different from his usual detachment. Where before he paid little mind to his body, now it feels like there is too much of it, too much of him, too many sensations for his mind to process and his skin to feel—and so he must hover outside of himself, sit himself on a perch above and between his own eyes as his nostrils flare, as his lids slide open.

The familiar dull blue of his sheets, the matching bedspread, the chipped tan paint on the walls, the patchy carpet—all of it obscured by something yellow, something blonde, something tossed and soft that lies partly across his face, partly spread across the pillow they share. He breathes deeply, and the scent swirls in his nostrils; the hint of something floral, traces of rum, a touch of human sweat and morning breath as something puffs sweet and moist against his neck, a pressure trails down his spine. His hand slides down, finds a mass warm and soft; tugs on it firmly, rolls his thigh and presses his dick, and with the breath of a single word the wetness against his leg seems to double in one seeping gush.

“Daryl...”

Then he feels it: The distinct press of a hand to his shoulder-blade. The rub of a calf against the back of his knee. The strong muscles of a thigh crossing his own and the wetness—

She doesn't freeze when he does; continues moving for a few moments, hips rolling, cunt hot and wet through her panties and his pants, pressed flush to his leg as she grinds herself against him. Her face is pressed to his neck; he can feel the flutter of her eyelashes and the gape of her lips as she gasps against his skin, whispers his name again.

Her nails scratch lightly at his back. Her legs flex. When he pulls back to look at her her cheeks are flushed and her chin trembling.

When her eyes open they are shot through with black.

He doesn't think he's moved so quickly in his life as he does when he scrambles off of her, ripping himself from her arms and scuttling to the edge of the bed, not stopping until his feet are solidly on the floor and he can grip the edge of the mattress with both hands.

He trembles, trembles _fiercely_ , trembles until he feels like he's dancing and his throbbing cock is the partner spinning him off the Earth.

He stares at the wall across from him. He listens to his pulse pounding in his veins. He hears her breathing behind him, heavy and deliberate and slow.

“Daryl—“

“Fuck off,” he says hoarsely, squeezing his eyes shut.

He tries not to think about the way the bed is dipping, how he feels her crawling closer; tries to think of anything besides how warm she felt pressed against him, how small she was, how easy to press down and cage with the bars of his body, how eagerly she moved with him—

Fingers brush the edge of his shoulder and he spins faster than thought.

She lets out a ragged gasp when his hand closes around her wrist.

He knows he's holding her too tightly, knows that sound was at least partly from pain; but that knowledge doesn't mitigate the way her expression blasts into him, the reality of her face, so close, bleeding open like a gaping wound as she hovers, fingers twitching in his grasp as she licks the lips that moments ago had been pressed to his throat.

“Daryl—“

“Don't,” he says, pleading himself, begging himself to look away—to pull away, to step away, to leave the horny bitch alone to take care of herself—

But he can't move. Because she's horny and she's here but more than that she's _looking_ at him—eyes wider than he's ever seen them, entire body trembling as her gaze covers his face, asking... He doesn't know what she's asking. He doesn't know what she wants. All he knows is her juices drying on his leg and her eyes are pools to dive into.

Later, he will blame himself. And not only for the millions of reasons he knows he should. That he got her drunk. That he let her share his bed. That he woke tangled around her and his first instinct wasn't to turn and run.

He will blame himself because he sees it. He sees the intent building in her eyes where they hover so close. He feels the muscles shifting in her wrist, rolling in her shoulders as she leans forward.

He knows what she's about to do and he doesn't even want to stop it.

The first brush against him could be chaste—a touch that doesn't even indent the skin, that he feels most in the breath she breathes across his upper lip. She still smells vaguely like cider but mostly like him and neither of them close their eyes as she pulls back, just barely, just enough to lay the question between them.

His death grip on her wrist tightens when she kisses him again; just as brief, just as fleeting—but more firm, a phrase instead of a word, lingering against his mouth. This time her eyes do flutter shut, so close he can almost feel their breeze on his cheek; and they stay closed as she pulls back, lips parted and trembling where they had just touched his.

“Daryl,” she breathes.

And it swirls in him. The first time he saw her, in tank top and pajama bottoms and his eyes between her thighs; the feeling of her next to him, glorying in destruction, shouting together into the wind; soft light and soft sounds at her kitchen table, eyes vacant and sad, bright and trusting, hazy in drink and fear and her body small between him and the house, him and the sheets; her hand shimmering in the glove of her juices, her tits hanging so small and sweet, her hips circling against his and rubbing her slick into his skin.

It swirls and it sinks and it settles into a hand in her hair and the other on her wrist as he drags her forward and drives inside her mouth.

* * *

He doesn't remember the last time he had kissed or been kissed—some heatless fumble, perhaps, in the bathroom of a club, a girl with track-marks and a pushup bra straddling his lap while he tried to remember if he needed to pick up milk on the way home.

There is nothing in his mind now. Nothing but the press of her lips, so soft and yielding as he licks into her mouth, swallows the breathy groan that shoots right down to his nuts; nothing but her warm scalp under his hand, her fingers arching around his wrist where he pins hers to the bed; her other hand searing a path along his neck to the knob of his spine and holding him tight so she can tilt her head and _whine_ , a high pitched keen that cuts off with a yelp as he releases her wrist to reach forward and grab her ass and haul her towards him, launching himself to his knees on the bed and pushing her back so fiercely she bounces.

She gasps his name in the moment before he covers her mouth again and then her body, feeling the life surge in her as he drags her up the bed and fumbles frantically for the the hem of her shirt, yanking up until his wrist brushes the mound of her bare tit and she lets loose a moan.

“Oh my god...”

He doesn't wait to look, doesn't wait for her to say more, doesn't wait for her to stop him; just presses her down with the flat of his chest so he can get a hand on her breast and the other on her stomach, taking a moment to relish the tightening nipple and jumping muscles before sliding a rough hand into her panties.

He feels only the syllables of _hot_ and _wet_ before she jerks so violently her lips wrench away from his.

They both freeze. Her hand is in his hair, the other over his on her breast, pressing him against the pebbled skin. His fingers tremble where they lie between her legs; he can feel downy hairs and the nub of a clit and his whole body throbs to take her there.

But she froze, and she's looking at him—eyes blown, mouth parted and kiss-swollen, cheeks peaked and blotchy as she stares at him with not a little apprehension.

“Beth,” he whispers, his hand spasming as he does, and she jerks again from the pressure it puts on her clit. “Beth, you... you done this before?”

Her hand tightens over his. She bites her lip. Her cheeks rock one by one towards the mattress.

He's halfway out of her panties before her thighs clench around him, tight enough that he feels the bones grind.

“I don't... I haven't done this,” she says, her voice so breathy it's more air than words. Her hair splays across the sheets beneath her, and slowly, the hand on his migrates down, skating her flat stomach to take hold of his wrist. Press him into her. Massage her own clit with the heat of his fingers.

“Beth—“

“But don't stop.” His fingers twitch again, scraping her with a ragged nail and arching her head back, baring her neck to his burning eyes. “Please, Daryl, please don't stop.”

It's selfish, he knows; it's so goddamn selfish to have her here, spread out before him; to have stolen the gift of her moans and her sighs and her rolling hips, and now to take this too. The shine on her fingers now on his. His body and not the sheet draped across her uncovered skin. The morning light bright enough to ache as he looks at her nipple, rolled and hard like the one beneath his palm, goosebumps springing up all over her stomach.

Her sweet young cunt sliding around him like a sleeve as she arches her hips, presses at his wrist; the shudder that shoots through her as his knuckle drags on her clit and his fingertip brushes her spongy entrance; her eyes, begging him for mercy, begging him to help her come. Begging him to fuck her, as if he knows how; as if he knows where to begin.

She rolls her hips again. Arches her chest towards his face. Whimpers loudly enough that the sound echoes in the small room.

“Please.”

Maybe he knows where to begin after all.

He starts with a rocking. Just his wrist, moving back and forth, drawing out then in, eyes sharp and hard on her face as she arches her head back again, bites her lip, stares upside down at the headboard. She mouths something, something he can't hear; he brushes his thumb across her nipple and she jerks, squeezing her thighs around his hand again, and he feels liquid gush against the pads of his fingers.

“You want me,” he says. It is not a question, not an answer. It is her eyes rising to meet his. Her sweet face flushed and hot and open. Her gaze urgent and wild but strangely calm, strangely soft; like the gaze of someone who's seen this coming for a long, long time.

“Beth,” he says.

“Touch me, Daryl,” she whispers. She slides the hand in his hair down to his cheek. Spreads her legs wider. Smoothes a thumb across his mouth. “Please. I want you to. I've wanted you to for so long.”

“Tell me...” he swallows, curls his hand into her; watches, amazed, as her pupils widen further, as her thumb digs into the corner of his mouth. “Tell me what to do, Beth. I... I don’t...”

“You haven't done this either?”

The thing is, he has. It was a long time ago, back when Merle was a semi-solid presence in his life; when Ma would get plastered and Merle would drag him out to do the same, finding a seedy club on a seedy street and picking the sleaziest girl of the bunch to throw Daryl's way. He had some inkling of what to do; knew that if he moved around enough down there, she might get some pleasure out of it. Found out fast he didn't need baseball bats or beer bottles, like the men in his pop's mags, to get the job done.

But now he's kneeling over this girl—this _girl_ , this _teenager_ , this woman barely more than a child who's trusting her flesh and her pleasure to his fumbling hands—and he freezes. Because this isn't a job. This is her first.

This is them.

He never expected to be in this place. But he's here. With her. And he wants to do this right.

“Just touch me, Daryl,” she whispers. “I don't care how, just... God, please. Please, I just want...”

And he knows, suddenly, what she wants. What to do. What to do to her.

She must see the shift in his eyes, for her mouth falls closed, her eyes slide to slits. She watches him, and arches, one sensuous wave; and when he swirls his thumb until it nudges her nub, when he slides through her slick and pushes back the hood, slipping back down like he's stroking his own foreskin—she sighs. She closes her eyes, and the rest of her falls open.

She's... he doesn't know what she is. Couldn't describe her, couldn't even try, as he watches her arching beneath him, bare from tits to hips, his skin dark and heavy against hers. He can see himself through her panties—can see his knuckles where they stretch the fabric, can see the movements of his hand as he explores her, rubs up and down her lips and through the skin between them, heavenly soft and soaking as he works her want out of her. He knows there are better ways to do this and maybe she expected more—but she's still stretched out beneath him. One leg is bent and tilted outwards while the other lies flat on the bed between his knees as he pulls himself up, moves his hand from her breast to rest by her cheek so he can see her, all of her, can watch the small mounds on her chest bounce as she jerks and sway as she rolls and swell up to rounded little points.

Her face. Her face is nothing he's seen. It's the same, it's Beth, but it's also more her than she's ever been—lost, abandoned, loose beneath his gaze as she forgets he exists but for the hand in her cunt, twisting into grimaces that make his stomach weak. Her hand is still on his wrist, tracing the tendons almost absently as they flex; her other is on her breast, holding on as if anchoring herself to Earth.

She's bright, she's daring, she's beautiful, and he feels the sight of her—the smell, the feel, the cum so thick between her legs he needs to concentrate to keep her lips from sliding closed—he feels it as if she were the one inside him. As if she's turned the two of them inside out and fucking her is fucking himself and all that he is is tangled in snarls between her small bared teeth.

“Beth,” he whispers, sliding his index finger from her entrance up her clit and watching in amazement as her whole body shudders. “Beth, jesus, Beth, look at me.”

It takes a moment, but then her eyes tremble open, pools of black ringed with blue that look at him like he's something magical.

And he knows he asked for her look but he can't hold it for long; falls forward instead, making her curl in on herself as he hits her clit at a new angle, and then he's covering her again; except where before all had been hazy and dreamlike and bodiless, now each sensation is sharp as knives—her breath hot on his face as they pant against each other, the taste of her cheek as he kisses across it, mouths her jaw and her neck until she arches with a gasp, moving sideways to claim her mouth and all the while his hand moves, smoothing up and down her cunt, beginning to squelch as he grinds against her. Her kiss is hard, harder than it had been, and when she groans a ragged edge and thrusts her tongue inside his mouth he knows what she wants.

If his tongue were in her mouth when he slips his middle finger inside her, she might have bitten clean through it; as it is, her teeth clamp tight around her own and she winces in pain even as she moans loud and throaty, grabbing his wrist and then his forearm and then his hip, dragging him down so he covers her more fully and when he pulls back to look at her he gives her a moment before bearing down and thrusting with his whole body.

“Oh!” she gasps, squeezing his hip so hard it hurts, her other hand flying to fist above her head in the sheets as he thrusts again, and again, fucking his finger into her cunt and his cock against her hip and he feels so close to coming he's delirious with it.

“Beth... fuck, Beth, you're so, jesus—“

“Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop,” she whispers like a litany, punctuated by small little cries that gather in Daryl's balls and the taut skin of his dick where it grinds against her. His pants are thin enough, he knows she feels it, feels him, _all_ of him—and she doesn't reach for it but she doesn't shrink from it either, and the vision—if the pants were gone, if he could smear his pre-cum on her skin like hers is on his hand, if all there was was sweat and slick and his cock so close to where she pounds for him—

And then all thoughts of his cock vanish, because she's going _wild_ —eyes wide and mouth open and hand scrabbling against him until her nails hook painfully into his back, until her thigh crosses over his hand and holds him in as her back arches and her hips buck and she _keens_ , voice rising higher and higher and him too spellbound to cover her mouth, can only bear down with the weight of his torso as she thrashes beneath him.

She comes down with heaving pants, so fierce and wracking in her chest that he's worried for a moment —but calm she does: whole body melting into the bed, legs falling open, head falling back, hands pressed to her chest as if to measure her thundering heart. He searches her face greedily, waiting for her eyes to slide open—

—and they do. Heavy, large, soft, dazed, filled with some trembling emotion that makes his hands flex nervously. They both jump at the movement, for, caught in the magic of her face, he had forgotten his hand still buried inside her.

They watch together as he pulls his hand from between her legs. His finger slides from her body slowly, and then all at once, the rim of her entrance sucking lightly at his fingertip as it loosens its stretch.

He holds his breath as his hand emerges, shimmering and drenched with slick. He can't look away from it; can't stop thinking how it would taste, were he to bring it to his mouth and lave the flat of his palm with his tongue; how it would look smeared across her belly and breasts. How it would feel, to have her suck herself off his skin, suck until the grooves in his pruned fingers go down to the bone.

He feels, though, suddenly shy; and unsure where to put his soaked hand, he rests it across her mound, over her panties; watches as the liquid seeps into the already spotted fabric; catches his breath at how large he looks against her, how the sight of his hand cupping her clothed cunt gives him a sense of possession that makes his knees shake.

Her hand sliding down her belly to rest over his wakes him from his daze. He looks at her. She's looking at him.

She tilts her head and seems suddenly so _young_ that he begins to shake for a wholly different reason.

And yet he doesn't panic—is slow and gentle as he pulls his hand away, her own falling into the place his had vacated. He wipes his hand on his sweatpants, still staring at her little fingers, their tiny pink nails, the way her middle finger has fallen into the indentation of her pussy lips—and it startles him when her stomach muscles flex and she sits partway up, reaching for him.

“What are you doing?” he asks, shocking himself with how heavy and rough his voice has fallen. It seems to shock her too; for she looks at him and shivers, then turns her eyes down again. He follows her gaze, ending with a shiver of his own on his hard length pressing obscenely at his sweatpants.

He catches her hand before it reaches him, and their eyes meet again.

“Beth...” he says.

“I want to.”

Her voice comes out shockingly loud in the still, the quiet, and he almost looks around to see if someone else had heard. It is loud, and strong, it speaks to him in a language he has heard on no one's lips but hers: one that reaches down through his throat and esophagus and stomach to something taut, deep within, a membrane or a filament corded into burning ropes that pull together his insides. This language takes hold of that rope, tugs it up towards his chest; and as those unknown words fall from her lips he feels the want to give himself over entirely.

He wants himself on his knees for her.

It is one moment, that keeps him from letting go; a flicker in her eyes as she looks down at his length, pulsing and hard for her—all for her, and she knows it; she's a smart girl. She knows there's no other woman, no other body in his head but the one he just had stretched out before him. She knows that every ounce of blood filling his turgid cock yearns only to be closer to hers.

And he sees the space where that frightens her. Maybe it's the thought of sex, that great unknown—but he doesn't think so. He thinks it's something far simpler than that.

She's never been wanted by a thing so ready to take her body apart.

He tightens his hold on her hand, and her eyes travel up his torso, land on his; and she sees what he sees and it all leaves her in one long rush.

He brings her hand down to the bed, pressing on it until he's sure she'll leave it there. He pulls away, but not far; lingers where his fingertips still brush her skin.

“There's towels. If you wanna shower.”

She blinks at him, slow and placid as a doe. Her lips are still shiny and swollen, and a spot on her neck has begun to darken.

She swings shaking legs out from under herself, scoots to the edge of the bed. She doesn't pause to get her bearings as she stands, and so wobbles; but she stays upright, and strong, and in his overlarge shirt and her soaking panties she walks to the bathroom and closes the door.


	11. Put Me Together Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the bright light of morning, he touched her, and she touched him back. All they need now is the courage to confront it.
> 
> Neither one of them is feeling very brave today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Mary <3
> 
> Please remember to review :)

Daryl feels the sparking of the yolk like pop-rocks in his brain as he watches the whisked egg spread across the pan, running in rivulets over the grooves in the aluminum. He holds the handle loosely; tilts it back and forth. The mixture rides the waves of gravity until it sizzles into a rubbery yellow-white, bubbling up and down.

The crackle of the filmy liquid plays a counterpoint to the steady rain of the shower, the accompanying creak of the pipes. He's kept one ear on that noise since it began; listened as he dragged jeans over his aching erection, settled an open flannel over his t-shirt like another layer of armor. His dick still pulses angrily at him, but now, at least, it is more subdued; held down by his zipper instead of dug into. He hasn't let himself touch it once since he fastened his belt, save pressing himself every few minutes against the handle of the oven, hissing along with the eggs as the pressure flares with pain and pleasure, deep down in his balls.

It doesn't help, knowing what the sound of that shower signifies. Knows that Beth is in there right now, naked, mere feet from him, washing away the oils his hands had left on her, letting the slick between her legs run down the drain. He's caught up in the image of her—leaning against the tile, its cracked grout; eyes closed in the steam as she cups herself, follows the paths his hands had made, creates new ones that she maybe wishes they would trek. Searching between her legs, perhaps, for her still humming button; coming again at the stretch of her two fingers, chasing the width of his one.

Daryl closes his eyes, leans his face into the heat rising from the stove top. His nose trembles as the steam builds tears in his eyes.

He pulls away just before they fall.

She's been in there a long time, he thinks. 20 minutes at least, letting the water slide over her warm body. Knowing he's out here, cheap dish soap no match for the smell of her pussy on his fingers. Knowing how hard he got for her. How wet she got for him. How she reached out to touch him and he almost let her.

Daryl barely remembers to flip the eggs before they burn.

He doesn't notice the water has shut off until she pads out on quiet feet; bare feet, leaving small spots of damp on the carpet. She's back in her yellow dress, bra and all. The fabric sticks to her skin, melding around her legs and waist, darkened in long, damp streaks where her barely-drying hair swings across it. Her hair is down, and she's twisting a strand of it between her fingers as she walks forward, not quite meeting his eyes.

She comes to stand beside him—close enough that he can smell his own soap and shampoo on her—and peers down at the stove, tilting her head towards him.

“Those eggs?”

“The fuck you think it is, toaster strudel?”

The reply comes out too fast for him to stop it, but she giggles before he can feel embarrassed; giggles, and reaches to take the spatula from him, pushing the solidifying mass around the pan.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting all the butter,” she says, not even bothering to mask the “duh” in her tone. “You weren't just gonna waste it, were you?”

Daryl snorts and plucks the spatula from her hand, and without thinking makes a point of bumping her with his hip as he does so. She giggles again, bumping him back, and as he gazes down at her he feels some of the tension in his gut float up and loosen.

“Sit the fuck down,” he says, without an ounce of real annoyance. She smiles up at him, and for a moment he thinks she's about to put her arms around his waist.

She doesn't (and he doesn't let himself feel disappointed that she doesn't, either); just looks at him until her smile softens, drifts into little more than lines on her cheeks.

“Yes sir, Mr. Dixon.”

She makes her quiet way to the table and Daryl turns back to the stove, more to have something to do than out of any real need. He pushes the eggs around a few times, listens as she begins to hum. He feels almost ready for conscious thought again.

He knows it hasn't hit him yet, what they've done; the magnitude of it, the weight. He knows in some abstract, distant way, that he's going to have to account for himself. To look this teenage girl in the eye and understand that he was the first to feel the inside of her. That he allowed himself to put his dirty, clumsy hands on her body as if he has any kind of right to it. That he grew hard for her, and she saw him grow hard for her, and she didn't turn him away.

But it hasn't hit him yet; and he's glad of it, because he isn't ready. Not with his cock still half-filled from the friction it got against her hip. Not with her barely five feet away, humming softly, her fingernails tapping a rhythm into the table top.

Daryl breathes in deeply, lets it out slow. It's been barely half an hour since his whole life changed and this is the calmest he's felt in months.

“Want coffee or something?”

He sees her shake her head from the corner of his eye, making her hair sway.

“I don't drink coffee,” she says. “Got any green tea though? With honey? I like that.”

Daryl snorts. “You think I have fucking tea in here?”

“What, not manly enough for you?” Beth teases.

Daryl shuts off the stove, grabs two forks and slides the eggs onto a pair of plates. He turns to her. She's sitting forward with her elbows on the table, her ankles crossed beneath her chair. He expects the sunny smile but he doesn't expect the knit between her brow and the stiffness in her shoulders, and it makes him have to wait a moment before stepping forward.

“You see me sipping tea with the queen?” he asks, handing her her plate and dropping into his seat with a grunt.

“You're gonna have to make me a list at this rate; drinks Daryl Dixon does or does not approve of.” She gives him an impish smile, then turns to the food, actually rubbing her hands together. “Mmmh, this smells delicious.”

Daryl shrugs, shoving a forkful into his mouth. “Smells like fucking eggs,” he says around the food, not bothering to cover his face as spittle flies out.

Beth scrunches her nose, but doesn't comment; just picks up her fork—rather daintily, he thinks—and cuts off a small portion of egg, raising it to her mouth and chewing slowly. He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until she smiles—lips and teeth closed as she chews—and he lets out the air in one long gush.

“Alright?”

“They're perfect,” she says once she swallows, letting her smile climb higher up her cheeks. “Daryl, thank you.”

“Just eggs,” he mutters, pushing the food around his plate until he's scooped up a smaller portion and brought it to his mouth.

It nearly falls back onto the plate when her hand enters his field of vision to slide over his.

For a few moments he can only blink, staring at her hand, her fingers curling under his so they tuck between him and the tabletop. She looks impossibly delicate next to him, wrist small enough that he could encircle it with half a hand. He feels a few calluses as she tightens her hold but otherwise her touch is soft as satin.

The swallow hurts going down his throat. He peeks up at her through his bangs and sees an unreadable _something_ swimming on her face—a school of somethings, the way her eyes flicker, darting from their hands to his eyes to the wall and back again. She looks as nervous as she did yesterday at his door.

_Can it only be just yesterday?_

“I mean it, Daryl,” she says, low, serious. “Thank you.” Daryl furrows his brow but she rushes on before he can even open his mouth. “I don't mean just for... just for that.” Even through his hair he can see her blushing fiercely. His skin suddenly feels too small for his body. “Although that was...”

“Beth,” he says, voice ragged.

“Sorry.” Her hand wavers, as if she's considering pulling it away, but in the end it remains—gripping him all the stronger, like a lifeline. “I just... gosh, I don't even know what.” She looks down at her lap, biting her lip. Daryl curls his thumb around her fingers. Just a hint, a brush of pressure, but from the twitch in her hand he knows she feels it. She looks up, and he sees her gathering her courage. “I guess... thank you for letting me in.”

He doesn't fully understand why that was so hard for her to say; but in the silent moments that follow he tries.

Thinks of her shivering in the husk of a jean jacket, tears standing out upon her cheeks.

Thinks of her with her heart outside in the snow, even indoors with her family, her friends.

Thinks of her shrinking and shrunken against the house, practically shaking in his hallway. Half his size, armed only with a loaf of banana bread against a man who had practically pounded her into the wall of her own home. Had left her there, like so much refuse.

And it hits him like a barn in a gale, the force of her bravery—the strength of will it must have taken to come here, not knowing what she'd find, but needing to because... he doesn't know why. Doesn't know why she'd risk so much for him, go through so much fear, as if the memory of whatever he was worth before was enough to make this price worth it. No matter his value now. No matter the way he made her shake.

Violence, and weeks of silence, and still she comes knocking on his door.

She isn't avoiding his gaze now; is flickering between his two eyes, searching his face avidly for some reply. He doesn't know what he's giving her, what she reads; but it seems to perplex her, and she sits with a furrow in her brow, waiting.

There are so many things he could say that he can't pick them apart. All he can do is tighten his hold on her fingers. All he can do is sit with her and not look away.

“Thank you—“

He stops mid-word and they both jump when something like a siren begins to blast into the room. Daryl is halfway to his feet before he feels Beth clutching his hand tighter. He looks at her, and she's smiling. She looks embarrassed.

“That's, uh. That's my phone.”

Daryl stares at her for a few seconds, then rolls his eyes, straightening up from his half-crouch. She lets her hand fall away as he does, and he refuses to follow it down to the tabletop, to mourn its loss.

“Couldn't get something a little gentler?”

Beth shrugs, smiling bashfully. “Sure makes you want to pick it up, huh?”

Daryl snorts and turns away from her, following the sound to the sofa, where she'd thrown her bag the night before. The phone is sitting at the top of the pile, so he grabs it, tossing it to her without looking at the screen.

She scrambles to catch it, clutching it to her chest when she does. “Hey!” she says. “I could'a dropped that!”

Daryl smirks. “Answer the damn phone, girl.”

Beth rolls her eyes and Daryl turns to the coffee table, wrinkling his nose at the cloud of flies beginning to gather around Merle's pizza. He flips the lid shut, hoping to at least contain it for now. He's about to head to the kitchen for a bag when he realizes the ringtone had ended, and it's ringing again.

Beth is staring at the phone, blank and wide-eyed. He's about to ask what's wrong when she looks up at him.

She seems transformed from the giggling girl of a moment ago; and with the solidifying of her face into something like grim acceptance, he feels a gate swing shut between them.

She looks down, and answers the phone.

“Hey Maggie.”

Daryl can hear the tenor of the older sister's voice even across the room. She sounds frantic. Angry.

Daryl turns back to the pizza, but they both know he's listening.

“Yeah,” Beth says. A few moments. “I just turned my phone on—“

Daryl can hear Maggie's voice rise in anger and he can't help glancing at Beth as he shakes out a garbage bag. She's sitting hunched over, looking at her knees, phone held in a white knuckle grip. She's swung her hair forward to cover her face, but he can see her lower lip going red under worrying teeth.

“What's going on?” she asks, sitting up straighter and glancing at Daryl. “Is Daddy—” She listens, and Daryl watches her face calm, and then fall. “I didn't mean...” Daryl swallows and goes to the coffee table, begins stuffing the pizza boxes inside.

“Maggie. That isn't fair.”

A few moments, that stretch into more moments. When he turns Beth is looking at him and he feels ensnared by the sight, as if she's reaching for him. As if she feels the ground falling out beneath her. As if she's apologizing.

“I've– I went over to Diane's after school. I was gonna be back by curfew, but her parents were out and they left the liquor cabinet open... I must not have held it so well.”

Daryl tries to hold his face still; tries to stare blankly back, as if none of this means anything to him.

Maggie says something and Beth's cheeks flood with red. “No, nothing like... it was just us.”

From Beth's blush, he knows what that question was.

Just us. Just them. Just Beth and Diane, getting drunk all alone. No boys. No men, to take advantage of them.

Beth's saying something about walking home but Daryl's stopped listening. He ties off the bag and doesn't look back and takes himself to the dumpster.

* * *

By the time he returns, Beth is in the same spot, but she's got her shoes and socks on, her hair pulled into a ponytail. It's practically sizzling from the humidity, small tufts already escaping their binds to frizz around her face. It makes her look softer, somehow. More innocent.

Again.

Younger.

Daryl starts to speak, but finds he can't get the words out. He clears his throat and tries again.

“You going?”

Beth's hands are knotted in her lap and they flex as she nods, as if trying to communicate from underwater.

“Yeah,” she says. She's gone back to not quite meeting his eyes. “I'll call Diane on the way, let her know what's going on. Lord knows I've covered for her often enough, she owes me.”

“Gonna tell her all about this, then?”

Daryl doesn't let himself regret the bitterness in his tone. No matter how she flinches from it. No matter how her shoulders fall.

“No,” she says. “Just that I was out with someone. Lost track of time.” Beth attempts a smile, pulling at her lips pathetically. “That part's true, ain't it?”

“You trust her?”

Beth doesn't even flinch at his interrogation, nodding instantly, hands still folded in her lap. “Yeah,” she says. “I do.”

Daryl nods, but doesn't say anything. The fuck is there to say?

 _Could ask her to stay,_ Daryl thinks. _Just a little longer. Drive her partway there. Take her someplace alone, someplace nice. Touch her again, if she wants._

Or just sit. Sit, and watch the world go by; sit as if he was just a boy and she was just a girl and this whole fucking day wasn't tearing him apart.

_It was just us._

_Us._

_For a few goddamn minutes that was us._

“So, um,” she says, breaking Daryl from his reverie, making him realize he'd been staring. He swallows and turns towards the door.

He holds it open for her as she walks forward slowly, shoulders hunched as if she's expecting a blow. And Daryl doesn't blame her, the way he feels himself thrumming; the look that must be on his face as she passes so close to him he smells his soap again, but different, softer, overlaid with the scent he had kissed from her neck.

He's about to close the door when he realizes she's paused, body tilting back and forth as if half is telling her to go, half to stay.

She turns around, looking no less conflicted, but she does not avoid his gaze.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it.” Daryl opens his mouth but she rushes to speak over him. “We don’t have to talk about it. Not now.” One bra strap is falling down her arm, but she doesn’t move to fix it. Just stares at him with her eyes, bleeding blue. “Just… do one thing for me?”

“What?” he grunts.

“Please don't leave again.”

Daryl looks at the girl before him. Scuffed up shoes, pretty yellow dress. Tendrils of hair sticking to her face and neck, the rest puffing unbrushed and soft around her head. Lips, still bearing—in his mind, at least—the mark of his kisses. Her legs long and pale as she steps forward, just once, as if he has raised some forcefield around himself that will allow her to go no further.

“Daryl?”

“I'll try,” he says. His voice rasps, barely a whisper. Maybe that's why she moved closer.

It still seems to relieve her, though; her shoulders come down a little, her face relaxes into the possibility of a smile. She fingers the strap of her bag, picking at a loose thread like it is a string on a harp.

“Ok.”

She has bewitched him. Cast him under her spell, ensnared him in her trap. It is the only way to explain how his reflexes fail to react; how he doesn't step or even flinch away when she comes forward those last few feet and rests her hand on the flat of his chest, right over his stuttering heart. He breathes in sharply, sways—and she catches him, with the strength of her hand and her feet on tiptoe, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

And then she's gone. Small feet pattering away. Leaving only a tingle on his lips and his heart, painful and full.


	12. There Are No Forts For What We Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl has carried his past his whole life, living day to day beneath its weight. There's no reason why finding one good thing—however confusing—will make it any lighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***WARNING WARNING WARNING***
> 
> The majority of this chapter consists of flashbacks to Daryl's childhood; **he remembers, in particular, his father sexually abusing his mother.** These memories and themes get entwined with his feelings about Beth in ways that might be highly disturbing, so please take caution while reading this. 
> 
> Send me a message on Tumblr (bethgreenesgirlgang.tumblr.com/ask) if you want more detailed warnings. 
> 
> Stay safe <3

> _**His learned values of decency and propriety tagged along, shocked at his associations, appalled at his dreams; sorry that in the bone arena of his skull there were no forts for what he loved.  
>  **                                                                       — Red Dragon by Thomas Harris_

He wakes up the next morning and it's his parents' anniversary.

It was never a date especially marked when his father was alive, and not for a long time afterwards either. But he always knew when it was. Learned to recognize the signs from an early age—the way his pop would break out the special whiskey, instead of his moonshine shit; pour Daryl (and Merle, if he was there) a shot with breakfast while he himself vanished into the bedroom with the rest of the booze, not to emerge until the bars opened at nightfall.

For a while, Daryl would creep in after his pop had left; found his ma naked, usually, or in one of her ratty old night-shirts, curled up tight on the bed with her eyes squeezed shut smelling of whiskey and what he came to know as cum. Some years she pretended Daryl wasn't there; others she screamed him out of the room until the force of her shouts emptied her stomach onto the floor. It took him a long time to figure out what actually went on in that room on that same day every year; took him longer to force himself out of the house when it happened, instead of sitting clench-fisted at the kitchen table, eyeing his pop's hunting knife where it lay on the kitchen counter. Merle could do it, he knew; if Merle were there, he wouldn't be such a pansy-ass; he'd take up that knife and open the door where his dad was grunting and his ma was whimpering and shove it directly up the old man's asshole, through the back of his skull, roll his body aside and let his ma cover herself while he whipped out his dick to piss on the bastard's twitching corpse. Merle was big, and strong, and brave; he could'a done it.

Except he took himself away. Talked a big talk, when he took Daryl with him to hang out with his friends—boys even bigger but not much meaner, not nearly as smart, chosen for their willingness to fall under Merle's thick-skinned thumb—talked how he could kill the old man with one flick of his wrist; how the only reason he was still breathing was cause Merle was such a friendly guy. The black eyes, he showed off; so, too, the blooming bruises on chest and arms and the scraped knuckles he got giving in return.

He didn't talk about how the old man raped his mother. Didn't talk about the whipping scars, some fresh enough for real shame, or the time Pop shoved his face into a steaming pile of bear shit in the forest. Didn't talk about how strength fled him at the sight of his pop's clenched fists, same as it did Daryl; didn't talk about the spikes of pride he got, bringing down a buck big enough for a clapped shoulder or celebratory screw, paid for in full.

He bared his scars, but only the ones he could use to scrape up some pride; only the ones that didn't matter.

Daryl lies partly on his side, running a hand across a scar. It isn't a particularly memorable one—the ones on his back tend to run into each other, delivered in bulk as they were—but for some reason it's always fascinated him. The texture. The way it curves a little, as if the belt had decided to get creative with itself, draw some new designs on Daryl's burning skin. He lingers along the end of it, where the puckered line fades into the span of his flesh, trailing away like a sentence abandoned. Like a creek, running through a drought, run out of water.

He thinks of Beth's skin. Those acres of unmarked flesh, white, shimmering. He knows there were imperfections—knows the glossy expanse like the cover of a magazine cannot be the reality, and he would not want it to be. But the flash of her he got, the tiny pill, the bitter shot—it was perfect. Smooth and creamy and so much it seemed endless, from the wings of her collarbones to the wings of her hips, her little tits standing like hills, knolls on a plain, tipped with sugar. Thinks of how those tits felt beneath his hand—small and firm and perfect, more perfect than any other tits he had deigned to touch, despite their smallness, despite their youth. He wonders if they will grow anymore as she ages and somehow he hopes not; tries to imagine her with a rack like the ones Merle's always adored, and finds that image wanting. Not because he prefers one or the other, not because one lessens the air of her innocence—he won't let it mean that—but because it is something he made, something in his mind he's crafted to represent a being not her. He thinks of her tits and a smile tugs at his mouth because they twisted and grew hard beneath his palm and because she gasped and moaned when he touched them.

He's hard. He has been since he woke, was when he went to sleep. He swears his balls must be the color of a muppet by now, for like before, he's held off on coming. Has enjoyed, in some perverse way, the twisted ache in his sac, the way his dick burns from chafing against his boxers, straining towards his zipper. He hasn't lain completely soft since he touched her and he knows Merle would be questioning his sanity by now, no matter his thoughts on what Daryl had done. Knows Merle would have jacked off ten ways to Sunday, the memory of those tits in his hand, the cream between her legs coating his fingers like icing.

But he is not Merle. When Merle left on this day for all those years, Daryl stayed; he stared at his father’s knife and he imagined it covered in blood and brain and gore, and he let those imaginings grow and fester until all behind his lids was red. And still he sat at the table and didn't move until his pop stumbled his satisfied way away.

But his pop is dead, Daryl thinks; dead some long, long years.

Not as many as Daryl wanted; not as many as there should have been, had Daryl been the son his ma needed.

His pop would laugh. Laugh and laugh, to know the thoughts spinning through Daryl's brain. The softness in them. The image of her eyes and not her ass filling his mind, his own cock abandoned in the face of her nub standing hard against his palm.

His pop would laugh, and Daryl would let him. He deserves someone to laugh at him, this time.

It twists all up in him until the friction makes it melt, and he settles his hand around his cock and balls, holding the whole mess in his hand, closing his eyes, feeling it pulse. Releases his sac slowly, so it is only his dick in his hand. Continues to touch his scar with his other hand, takes a few moments then matches the stroking of each.

Up and down. Back, forth. A press here, squeeze there. Her bright blue eyes boring into him, drowning in black, wide and earnest and begging. Hips arching into his hand, head tossed in abandon, constricting his fingers with her body until he feels the bones grind. He strokes his cock and the scar his father gave him and he stares at the pockmarked wall and he feels the same spikes of feeling from each.

Pleasure.

Agony.

Shame, pure and thrusting and bright.

It took him a long time to figure out what his pop did to his ma in that room. Longer than it should have, with the brother he had, the education he got. It must have been his mind resisting it, that type of violence, one of the few he and Merle had been spared from. A big body holding a smaller body down. Prying it open, stretching muscles until they tear, drawing cries of pain indistinguishable from those of pleasure, sometimes. Ripping through the silent barriers between his victim and the world, violating their sanctity, making them bleed. Getting harder and harder as those cries of pain rise and fall with tortured grunts, moving faster as that aching body forces itself to relent, invites him in to save itself, slicks the way with juices he can lap up later and call proof of his victory. Release himself into all that plumpness, watch the stretched and reddened flesh flush with sticky white.

He doesn't open his eyes. Strokes himself to completion, lost in the sight of the inside of his head, focusing on that blackness in lieu of what else he could see. Her. Himself. Looking down and finding his hands larger, hairier, thicker and more scarred and greying with early age and ire. Stroking a cock that had invited itself to unwilling places with hands that spread unwilling thighs. Cum that had made boys as old now as his wife was when he put them in her, as old now to make their own on women just as quietly unwilling.

Daryl opens his eyes. His spunk stands out on the dark sheets, little jets of white, crusting at the edges where it soaked into the fabric.

He can't see the stain she made. The liquid that pooled from her pussy, that he pumped out of her, scooped from her insides and painted like splashed blood across the sheets. That stain had dried invisible, vanished like she had, leaving the apartment silent and empty and still swarming with flies seeking the meal he'd stolen from them.

Parasites. Monsters. Laying eggs, consuming flesh.

Drowned in liquor and lust and debasement.

* * *

He calls his mother because he's been bleeding himself numb for over 24 hours and he isn't sure any longer who the voice in his head belongs to.

She answers on the third ring, just as he's worked himself down to hoping she won't pick up.

“Hello?” she says, voice a little distracted, like he's interrupted her in the middle of something and she forgot to check the caller ID.

“Hey Ma,” he says, fiddling with the fork. He hasn't bothered to clear the table yet, and the plates and cutlery sit right where they left them the morning before. The remnants of the eggs have dried to a crust, but there are enough flies left over from the pizza that they attempt to land now and again; Daryl waves them away with absentminded flicks of his wrist, vaguely wondering how long it will be before he has to vacuum their corpses from the carpet.

“Daryl!” she says, and he winces as he always does at her enthusiasm. She never felt so much, not so fiercely, not so out-loud, before she went sober. The booze made her voice louder and her gestures grander but it kept her emotions in check; and now when she speaks to him it's like almost five decades of repression threatening to burst.

“Yeah,” he says, shifting in his seat. “Thought I'd call. Knowing what day it is and all.”

“I didn't think you'd remember,” she says, a little more softly. He hears some rustling on her end and he imagines he'd interrupted her in the kitchen; now sitting down to the table, where Beth had sat. Imagines he's on the other side where he had been; imagines he can see her broad body, her rusty untamable hair, her eyes that still sparkle, even after it all. Are only now learning to sparkle again.

“Yeah,” he says again, spinning the fork on his thumb. “You doing anything for it?”

He feels a bit ridiculous for asking, but he doesn't really know what else to say. Still doesn't know exactly how to talk to this version of his ma, who doesn't need him to placate and calm and soothe.

“Not really,” she says. “Things have been... different, here, the past few days. Still getting through that.”

Daryl knows exactly what is “different.” He knows. The evidence of it sits in front of him, being picked apart slowly by flies.

But he knows he has to ask. It would seem strange if he didn't ask.

“What happened?”

His ma sighs heavily. “Beth didn't come home Friday night. She's never done anything like it before, so the moment after her curfew passed, Hershel was worried. He's good at hiding it, but he was.” She pauses to cough, the sounds muffled like she's turned her head. “I stayed up the whole night with him. He's so used to getting a full night's rest, he's still sleeping it off.”

“She alright?” Daryl asks, pressing the handle of the fork into the scarred table.

His ma makes a sound, and Daryl imagines she's rolling her eyes. “Jesus. Turns out she'd been with a friend getting _drunk_ all night.” Eleanor is quiet, the only sound over the line a quiet smacking, like she's chewing on her lip. “I've never seen Hershel so angry,” she says softly. “Never seen him angry at all, really.”

Daryl freezes, heart pounding in his chest. “He didn't—“

“No, Daryl, lord no,” Eleanor says. “It was... he barely even shouted. She came in... she came in and they went straight to the kitchen table. I didn't get close enough to hear the words, but they just... they talked. When they came out she went to her room and he said she was grounded and that was that.”

“How long?”

Eleanor huffs. “Long as he wants, I assume.”

“How'd you know he was angry, then? If that's all he did?”

Eleanor goes quiet again, and Daryl flips the fork over, tracing it across scars already made in the tabletop. He finds one particularly deep groove and digs in the prongs until he feels them begin to bend.

“It was... an energy. The way he held himself, looked at things. He's always quiet but this quiet was... something else. Like it was something he'd sucked up from inside himself. It didn't feel like he was holding himself back, or that there was more, just... he seemed himself. But not.” She pauses, as if debating whether she should share her next words. When she speaks, it is so quiet he imagines she's speaking more to herself than to him. “It scared me more than anything your father ever did.”

“Beth ok?” Daryl asks, trying to ignore the creeping of his spine.

“As far as I can tell. We haven't really spoken about it.” Daryl hears a smile come into his mother's voice. “She apologized to me, just before you called. Said she knows how hard it's been for me to stay sober and that she doesn't want me to think she's mocking that. Said she won't do it again, at least without asking us.”

Daryl imagines Beth going up to his ma. He tries to think what she'd actually be apologizing for. He knows she'd feel guilty for hurting them, for lying—for the lie they don't know she's told, too.

He wonders what she felt, speaking to his mother now that she'd been violated by her son. Wonders if she feels awkward, or if it thrills her, to do something so dirty right under her almost-step-mother's nose. Wonders if she'd apologize for wanting to do it again.

Daryl stifles a small bubble of hysteria. If he weren't digging the fork into the table, carving new grooves, channeling his turmoil into the cheap, second-hand wood, he's sure he would laugh.

“It amazes me, really, that she hasn't been more rebellious,” his ma continues, oblivious to Daryl's disquiet. She gives a short laugh. “Imagine you and Merle growing up without drink in the house. Lord, you would'a burned the place down before I did.”

Daryl jerks, surprised at her willingness to joke about that. It doesn't temper the tumult roiling in his gut, though.

“Dunno if she needs drink like we did, Ma.”

“Well. Suppose not.” Eleanor pauses, the sound of her sucking on her teeth coming quietly through the phone line. “You fixing to come up to the house soon? We've missed you.”

“I dunno, Ma,” Daryl says.

“I didn't mean for what I said that night to upset you so much.”

Daryl frowns. Here's another thing he didn't think she would bring up. His ma is full of surprises, this morning.

“Weren't that, just... I ain't good at this whole family thing. Can't keep up with it.”

“I know,” his ma says. “But still. Thank you for what you've been doing. I'm proud of you for trying, Daryl.”

Daryl shifts in his seat, trying to tamp down his blush even though there's no one there to see it. “A'right, Ma.”

“Alright.” Eleanor sighs. “It's getting on in the morning, I ought'a get some chores done. Maybe it's a good thing, you staying away from this farm—never a shortage of things to do!” Shuffling noises come through, like she's standing. “I'll call back soon–“

“Wait,” Daryl says. His eyes have drifted to the coffee table, and a new discomfort has begun to unfurl in his gut. This, at least, he can share. “I need to tell you...”

“Tell me what?”

Daryl hesitates, then exhales roughly. “Merle came by.”

His ma is silent for so long Daryl checks the screen of his phone to be sure she didn't hang up.

“Ma?”

“I heard you.” Her tone is clipped, and Daryl recognizes the signs of her shutting down again. “Why're you telling me?”

“He was asking for money,” Daryl says. “I told him I don't have any, least not for him. But he seemed of a mind to keep grasping for it.” Daryl pauses, biting at his thumbnail. “Mentioned hitting up Hershel.”

Eleanor snorts. “He wouldn't dare.”

“Dunno. Thought you deserved the warning, though. In case he shows up.”

“Alright.” Eleanor exhales harshly, almost a scoff, tone tight. “He comes by again, you call the cops right away, you hear? I don't care how wheedling he's being; his ass's needed more jail time for too damn long.”

“A'right, Ma,” Daryl says, continuing to worry his thumb. Wonders if Merle really will show up again. Wondering if his agreement holds any kind of truth. “I'll let you go, then.”

“Ok.” Eleanor pauses, and when she speaks again, her usual buoyancy has returned. If a little forced. “You let me know when you wanna come by. You still have to hear Beth sing, you know. She's been practicing for her new role day and night.”

“Maybe,” Daryl says quietly. “Bye, Ma.”

“Bye, baby.”

Daryl ends the call and sets the phone on the table, stares at his scarred knuckles wrapped around the cheap plastic. He doesn't move for a long time; several flies land on and take off from his fingers before he summons the energy to stand.

The morning after this day, every year all those years before, his Pop'd come home smelling like booze and women. And he'd cook. Use the fire-pit out back to grill up some venison, season it to his liking, bring in the whole hulking haunch and clear a table so he could carve it. Daryl and his ma would watch, usually; entranced by the way he worked that knife, severing skin, cutting tendons from bone, peeling the layers until all that was left were strips of meat, tender and juicy and fragrant.

He'd talk to them as he worked. He'd be in a jolly goddamn mood. Talk about his night, the night before. What his buddies said, the jackholes he beat up, the pussies he fucked. He talked at length about that—talked about their tight holes milking his cock, their asses up in the air, gaping cunts weeping and begging for him. Talked about how tight they were, how fragrant, how young. How their tits sat so high on their chests they were practically under their chins. How their stomachs barely jiggled as they rode him. How he hadn't been fucked like that for years. For decades. How it felt to fuck _real_ women, and not his ho-bag wife.

He'd turn around, whistling cheerfully, balancing three plates, heaping and full. Plop one each into their laps, sink into his own armchair, go to town. Daryl and his ma wouldn't meet each other's eyes, but they'd watch him. Juices dribbling into his beard. Hands tearing into the meat, licking the oil off his fingers. Chunks of food flying from his maw as he continued to talk, in the best mood he'd be in all year.

Daryl and his ma never ate, though they knew the meat was good, though Will Dixon never allowed them to fill their bellies like this. They'd pick at the food, waiting for Will to finish. Watching him, always watching, as he chucked his plate into the full sink; let out a belch, lean forward to fart, laugh at the pinch of disgust on his wife's face. Smack her cheek lightly, tell her to loosen up, or he'd have to do it for her, cause clearly what he'd done the day before didn't take.

When he left to sleep off his meal, Daryl'd follow his Ma silently into the yard; watch as she clucked her tongue, knelt down; waited with her in silence as the neighbor's pitty trotted up to the chicken wire between the properties; helped her feed it in strips, every bite.

In the now, he stands up. Lets the fork drop to the table. Goes into the bedroom to sleep again.

He leaves the eggs for the flies.


	13. A Clear Sky Just Wouldn't Feel Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After practically an entire weekend in bed trying to process what happened between him and Beth, Daryl is back at work and fully resolved to push the whole thing to the back of his mind.
> 
> Unfortunately for Daryl, Beth is equally resolved to make sure he doesn't shut her out again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Mary!!!
> 
> I have another chapter after this basically done—I still have some editing to do, but it shouldn't take long.
> 
> The more reviews I get, the faster I'll edit ;)
> 
> (sorry sorry, I know, I suck, I hope you enjoy the chapter!)
> 
> Chapter title from Sara Bareilles's "Come Round Soon"
> 
> WARNINGS for brief allusions to sexual abuse/assault.

Daryl sleeps so much that he wakes up feeling drunk and hungover all at once, head spinning and stomach clenching on the little he'd eaten the day before. He doesn't eat much now—a few fists-full of cereal on the way out the door, banana bread still pushed into the corner of the fridge—but he doesn't think it would help much even if he did. What he's feeling can't be cured with food. He thinks, vaguely, of calling Merle, his brother's form of oblivion creeping on the edges of his thoughts—but his exhausted mind shuts that down before it starts. That kind of escape is good for the moment—he wants something more permanent. An endless bed. Pillows stacked high. Blankets thick enough to keep out the light.

He pulls into Aaron's garage and thinks only of going home and sleeping for the rest of his life.

He knows he must look awful, for Aaron doesn't respond to his grunted hello; Daryl looks up from the orders he's going through and sees his friend staring at him with that quizzical look that reminds Daryl, suddenly, far too much of Beth.

“The fuck's your problem?” he growls, flipping a page up so violently it nearly tears.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Aaron says slowly. Daryl holds his stare for a moment, then two; then Aaron's mouth twitches, and Daryl sees the moment he decides to let it go. For now at least. “Mrs. Sherry's Camaro is due up today; you almost done?”

“Yeah,” Daryl grunts, tamping down the gratefulness in his eyes. He's too tired for gratitude, anyway.

He works himself into a stupor for most of the morning. Aaron must sense his foul mood; he runs careful interference, keeping the customers away from Daryl as he drips his weight in sweat onto the garage floor. Work is usually a routine, relaxed affair; no matter their shortage of staff, they are a small garage, and Daryl's lack of a social life means he works far longer than another employee might. They rarely have enough backlog to feel busy. But Daryl makes himself busy. He turns bolts viciously, until his muscles burn; he lifts blocks instead of winching them, scoots beneath cars without the creeper. He knows it's unsafe; knows his body will berate him later, as well as Aaron, if he notices the small scrapes of blood appearing across Daryl's bared arms. But he can't be bothered. Not at all. It's his flagellation, and no one else's.

He's working on a busted carburetor when he hears a familiar engine roll up. He's lost enough in his own head, his own hands, that the familiarity doesn't register until he hears the soft tap of sneakers approaching and a small shadow falls across his bent back.

He squeezes his eyes shut against the flash of blonde out the corner of his vision; grits his teeth against the urge to turn and look.

She does not exist. He will not _allow_ her to exist. If he ignores her for long enough she is sure to vanish in a cloud of smoke, like the charring end of a cigarette—

“Hey Daryl.”

He cannot help it. It is not his decision to turn, drawn like a flower to the sun. And for one confused moment he wonders how the sun seems to have stolen itself into her body, lighting the tufts of hair around her face into a halo, shadowing her features until all he can see is the gleam of her eyes and a sheen of lipgloss.

She is not the sun; she stands in front of it, throws him into her shadow.

But he feels burned. He feels burned all the same.

“Hey,” he says.

He sees her shadow smile, and she shifts her stance, sticking both hands into her back pockets. She is wearing high-waisted shorts and a tank-top just short enough to bare her midriff, with those same scuffed pink sneakers. As his eyes adjust to her form surrounded by the sun, he sees her hair is pulled into a high ponytail; as she looks around, he sees she's woven a single braid into its fabric, a piece of decoration delicate as a rose.

“This is where you work, huh?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, turning away from her to rotate his wrench. He doesn't even know if he needs to, but he knows it looks efficient, like he knows what he's doing, like he's good at it. Like even now he feels a burning in his gut to impress her, to flex his work-warmed arms and play his experienced fingers. Like he wants the gaze sliding across his sweat-soaked body. Like he didn't go to bed and wake and go to bed again rejecting the thought of her eyes ever touching him again.

It isn't easy. None of this is easy.

“It's bigger than I expected.”

Daryl glances at her despite himself, eyebrows raised. “Any smaller and it'd be fit for ants, girl.”

“Maybe I'm just smaller than I thought I was.” Beth's smile is soft, what he can see of it in the sun's shadow. “Did you have a good weekend?”

 _I thought of you,_ he thinks, jaw working itself taut against the words. _I thought of you every waking moment and every sleeping one too. I thought of your tits and your face and your cunt and how warm and right you felt around me. I thought about holding you down and fucking you until you cried and I thought about holding your hand and I thought about doing that night over. I thought about dancing with you. I thought about standing in the middle of all those people with my hands on your body telling them you were mine. I thought of bending you over the table in your kitchen and fucking you in front of your daddy. I thought of hurting you. I thought of you hating me and telling me so and I thought of jumping into oncoming traffic. I thought of finding Merle and his shit and I thought of dosing myself till I couldn't tell whether your hands on my face were real or not. I thought about my pop and how proud he'd be to see me screwing you and I thought about killing you and killing him and I thought about my mother with blood and a hot water bottle between her legs._

“Nah,” Daryl says. “Nah, not really.”

_I thought of you smiling._

_At me. Like that. Just like that._

The smile falters at his words, but does not disappear. She steps forward so she is no longer haloed by the sun, and Daryl squints as its rays hit him directly. Beth circles around to the other side of the engine, peering down with a bewildered curiosity.

“You know how this whole mess works?”

Daryl shrugs, thumbing at a sharp edge until the blood begins to rise beneath his skin. “I guess, yeah.”

“That's amazing.” Beth leans against the car behind her, hands still in those damn back pockets. “I wish I knew something that well.”

Daryl snorts, shrugging. “Ain't nothing. Just know it, 's all.”

“You don't see how amazing that is?”

She's looking at him. Looking at him with her big earnest eyes and Daryl wants to rip himself apart.

“Whatever,” he mutters, ducking his head. “I'm busy, a'right. You should scat.”

There's a few beats of silence, like he's surprised her, or hurt her. He doesn't look up to see which it is. He doesn't.

“You had your lunch break yet?”

He does look up at that, eyebrows furrowed.

“No. The fuck you ask that for?”

“There's a diner a few blocks away. I'm pretty hungry.”

“Then go eat.”

“I thought you could come with me.”

Daryl hates her in this moment. Hates her with her long-lashed eyes and babydoll mouth and every inch of her pale pink skin.

Hates how even now all he wants is her hand sunk into his filthy hair, his face against her stomach and arms around her legs. All he wants is her forgiveness.

He hates himself for that too.

“Who says I want to?”

“I do,” Beth says. She pulls her arms out from behind her, folding them across her chest. “I wanna get lunch with you, Daryl Dixon. You gonna tell me no?”

He really, really hates her.

“Fine,” he grunts, avoiding her triumphant eyes as he stands, not knowing what he'd do if he saw her victory writ across her face.

When he does glance at her, though, she doesn't look triumphant—just happy. Thankful. And that look and those thoughts thump in his chest with the intensity of a bass drum.

“Go on'n wait by the road,” he says.

She grins, throwing a hand to her head in the imitation of a salute. “Yes'sir, Mr. Dixon.”

He rolls his eyes and turns away from her, trying to hide his pink cheeks as her tennis shoes tap away.

He cleans his hands on a rag and walks to the office, heart suddenly pounding even harder at the thought that Aaron might have seen that exchange. That he might have seen it, and knows, because how could he not, the way Daryl is?

But when Daryl gets to the office Aaron is in deep conversation on the phone. From his tone and the small smile on his face, Daryl knows exactly who he's talking to, and exactly how distracted he is.

“Steven's already bringing three cases of wine from work; you really think we're friends with a bunch of lushes?” There's a pause, and Aaron's grin widens. “You don't need to get me drunk for _that_ —“

Daryl clears his throat, and Aaron's eyes jump up to him in the doorway. He has the grace to look slightly guilty.

“Hold on, Eric,” he says into the phone, before pressing it to his chest. “What's up?”

“Going on break now,” Daryl says.

Aaron furrows his brow. “O...kay.”

Daryl flushes. “Thought I'd go somewhere. Don't feel like eating here.”

“Yeah, no problem. Take your time, man.”

Daryl nods. “A'right.”

He's halfway out the doorway before Aaron's voice stops him.

“Wait.”

Daryl half turns, looking at Aaron with one eye.

“I know something’s going on with you. And I just wanted to let you know that that’s ok. You don't have to tell me what it is. But if you do ever want to talk, I'm here.”

Daryl looks at his feet, and he thinks. He thinks about telling Aaron, about her face and her smell and her cunt and her pretty mouth that brings him to his knees with the truths she tells. He thinks about bringing her in, right now, introducing them; he thinks about Beth smiling and Aaron laughing and him in the middle of all that goodwill. He thinks about the three of them in his truck somewhere, Beth and Aaron singing to the radio while he smiles into the breeze. He thinks about holding her hand while Aaron holds Eric's hand and he thinks of all of them sharing their lives.

He pushes those thoughts aside. None of them will happen. He's going to lunch with the teenager he fingerfucked and beyond that there's nothing to tell.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Daryl grunts. He looks at Aaron out the corner of his eye. “Thanks.”

Aaron nods, shooting him a smile. “Just make sure you get back in time to finish that Camaro.”

Daryl's lips quirk at Aaron's attempt at being authoritative. “Yes'sir.”

“Good.” With one more nod, Aaron turns from him, bringing the phone back to his ear. “Hey, hon. Yeah, it was Daryl...”

Daryl walks away with Aaron's tone ringing in his ears. The way it changed, between speaking to him, speaking to Eric. How it deepened, broadened, turned into something wild and sweet and sweeping as the sea.

He wonders what Aaron would think, were Daryl to turn his own voice to Beth. He wonders what he sounds like to others when they speak.

He finds her exactly where he told her to be: leaning against the sign announcing the garage to passing motorists, legs crossed at the ankles as she types into her phone. She's so engrossed in it that Daryl's shadow crosses hers before she thinks to look up.

When she does, she jumps a little, thumbs hitting a few extra buttons on her touchscreen.

“Jeepers, Daryl, don't sneak up on me like that!”

Daryl raises an eyebrow. “Jeepers?”

“Shut up.” Beth types in a few more words, then slides her phone into her pocket. “Ready to go?”

“We ain't driving?”

“Close enough, thought we could walk.”

“A'right.”

They stand for a few moments, staring at each other. Waiting for the other to say something. Waiting for it all to give.

As usual, Beth breaks their stalemate. She gives a swish of her hips, smiling at him almost shyly; then without a word, turns and begins to head down the sidewalk.

Daryl follows along after her, feet falling in the shadow of her own. She's walking on the side of the street, and glances back a few times, as if she expects him to draw alongside. Eventually she stops looking; focuses on the road ahead, on leading him where she will.

Whatever her decided end—her shadow's got him in its grip. And it isn't letting go any time soon.

* * *

The diner is the same as a thousand others across the South—the kind of dirty that comes from years of shoddy cleaning that even a determined scour couldn't wash away. Cracked vinyl seats, ancient jukeboxes long since disconnected, tiled floors lined with darkened grout. Daryl feels something of the romance of the location seep into his skin; the scores of others there must have been like the two of them, leading each other to this shithole on the side of the road.

He doubts anyone has been exactly like them, though. Not even close.

Beth chooses a booth along the wall without windows, sliding into one side and waiting for Daryl to take the other. His jeans slide uncomfortably across the plastic seat, and he can only imagine what it must feel like on Beth's bare legs.

He doesn't mention it—but he almost wants to. Wants to see her reaction, how she would smile, joke. How she would be proud of him for trying.

She has no reason to be proud of him, he reminds himself. None at fucking all.

“You ever been here before?” she asks, bouncing a little on her seat.

Daryl shrugs, playing with the napkin wrapped around his silverware. “Nah. Usually bring a sandwich, eat at the garage.”

“What kind of sandwich?”

Daryl gives her a weird look. “Whatever the fuck's on sale, why d'you ask?”

Beth shrugs. “Just wondering. I wanna know more about you.”

Daryl snorts, looking at the tiny triangle he's torn off the napkin. “You really fucking don't,” he mutters.

She's about to reply—he knows she's about to reply, she always replies when he says something like that, something she might construe as violence to himself—but she's interrupted by the bright voice of the waitress as she comes by their table.

“Hey there, Beth,” she says. “Long time since I saw you here. How's your dad doing, his heart ok?”

Beth smiles at her with the ease of long association. “He's doing real good, Karen. How's Tyreese?”

Karen rolls her eyes. “Spoiling the girls, like always.” She holds up a hand, wiggling her fingers. “Haven't gotten a real nail job in months. How'm I supposed to get tips with awful nails, I always ask him, but no, those darn kids need their deluxe Barbie dream-houses.”

Beth giggles, swinging her feet below the table. “Well, you know princesses make better salaries than waitresses anyway.”

Karen rolls her eyes. “Don't I know it.” She looks at Daryl for the first time, and frowns. Daryl tenses, knowing what's coming; the interrogation, the worry, the over-protectiveness as she wonders who this asshole is hanging around her virginal friend—

But then her face splits into a grin. She points at him with her pen. “You're Daryl, aren't you? The brother?”

And Daryl's stomach drops halfway to his feet.

“His mama's marrying my daddy, yeah,” Beth says, tone suddenly strained.

Karen smiles indulgently between them. “So nice to see siblings bonding. I never go to lunch with my brothers, and we've known each other our whole lives!”

“Uh-huh.”

Daryl can feel Beth's eyes on him, but he just stares at his napkin. He's unraveled it from the silverware and begins twisting it in his hands, pulling just enough that small cracks appear in the paper.

Karen taps her pen on her pad, the sound loud and smart. “What'll you be having, then?”

“Just a Coke,” Daryl says hoarsely, not looking up.

He can _feel_ Beth's frown. “You don't want anything to eat?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“It's my treat you know—“

“I don't _want_ anything, Beth, _fuck_.”

Silence rings between the three of them. Daryl looks back down at his hands, stares at the napkin torn in two halves.

“Ok,” Beth says quietly. There's a moment of silence. “I'll have a cheese omelette, please.”

“Ok,” Karen says after a moment, scribbling on her pad. “One Coke and one cheese omelette.” Daryl glances up, and sees her looking at Beth pointedly. “Y'all holler if you need anything, ok?”

Daryl's skin shivers. Good. This is good. The distrust is good. Beth needs more people concerned for her, when he's around.

It doesn't help the pain in his gut, though, as he takes in her sobered face.

Karen walks away and it's just them again, but even the ease Beth had brought with her to the garage has gone. Daryl sits stiffly, shredding his napkin. Beth sits straight-backed, looking at her hands.

A mess is what it is. A giant, fucking mess.

“Thank you for coming,” she says quietly, barely loud enough for him to hear. “I wasn't sure you would.”

“Yeah, well. What're brothers for.”

“Stop that, Daryl,” Beth says, tone brooking no argument. “Don't gimme that.”

Daryl looks at her incredulously. “What? The fucking _truth_?”

“You know what I mean,” Beth says. “You know.”

“Nah, I dunno if I do. Why don't you tell me?”

“You ain't saying that cause it's _true_. You're saying it because you wanna get rid of me.”

“Is it working?”

“Not at fucking all.”

Daryl freezes at the curse, staring at her as she colors. The embarrassment on her face—and the pretty blush building up to her cheekbones—melts his fury a little.

“You ever say that word before?” he asks.

Beth gives him an abashed little smile. “Yeah, of course I have. Just not in _public._ ”

“Mmhm.”

He looks at her, smile playing on his lips, until his amusement drains away. He does not move his eyes from hers though. She does not move hers from his.

“Why the fuck're you here, Beth?”

“I wasn't gonna wait while you ignored me again,” she says. “Not this time.”

“You don't think there's a good reason to ignore you now?”

And there it is. The silent shame curling between them, that for all her bravado he _knows_ she feels—sees it in the tightness of her jaw, the way she can't quite meet his eyes after that statement.

Daryl takes a deep breath.

“It was a mistake—“

“I wanna try this.”

She speaks loud enough that several patrons turn their heads to look at them, and Daryl hunches his shoulders even as he stares at her.

“Try what?” he grinds out.

“This.” Daryl doesn't think he's ever seen her so pink, outside his bedroom, and doesn't _that_ thought make him shiver. She pushes through it, though, biting her lip and gesturing between them. “Us. I wanna try it.”

“The fuck do you mean?”

She looks at him, exasperated. “What do you think I mean?” She shifts in her seat, but keeps her eyes steady on his. “I wanna... I wanna be a couple. With you.”

Daryl didn't think it was possible to breathe so slowly while his heart beats so fast. It's like his body has forgotten its grip on reality, is about to defy gravity and float up to the sky.

“The fuck... Ain't you grounded, anyway?”

“I'm cutting class. Don't change the subject.” Beth leans forward, her hand halfway across the table like she wants him to reach for her. “I like you, Daryl. I really...” She trails off, cheeks still unbearably pink. “I like being with you,” she says. “Being around you. That night was...”

“Yeah, I know what that night was,” Daryl says. “You're a horny little bitch who can't keep her legs closed. It's fucking pathetic.”

Beth reels back as if he's physically struck her. Daryl clenches his knuckles, which tingle as if they had.

“There's no need to be nasty,” Beth says.

“Ain't the nasty one,” Daryl grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. “Getting drunk and sloppy all over me, like some drunk college bitch.”

“And who insisted I start drinking?” Beth hisses, shoving her torso forward. He could reach her face with his without leaving his seat. “You wanna assign blame, Daryl, we got that equally—but I don't think we need it.” She drops back into her seat, hands braced on the tabletop. Her eyes are wide, eyebrows high, cheeks peaked and molted. “You really think this is just about _sex_ for me?”

Daryl realizes, suddenly, how loud they might have been talking. He looks around. A few people are looking at them curiously, but not with outrage; not as if they heard what they were saying.

“Keep your voice down,” he mutters.

“I care about you, Daryl,” she says, ignoring him. “I know you care about me too. I _know_ it.” She does grab his hand this time; reaches clear across the table to cover his clenched knuckles, rub her thumb across them. Daryl feels fit to vibrate out of his skin. “I just... I think this could be something. Something good. Don't we deserve that?” She licks her lips, eyebrows furrowed. “ _I_ think we do. And I don't... I know the situation is... awkward. But it ain't like we grew up together, or one of us is forcing the other, or—“

Daryl stands, yanking away from her hand with the silverware clenched in his fist, knife an angry spike extending from beneath his knuckles. The booth is bolted in and he hunches over when his thighs hit the table but that doesn't stop him from shaking with rage and confusion and fear, so much fear he's amazed she can't smell it on him.

Maybe she can. Maybe that's why she's looking at his face, and not at the knife. Maybe that's why she's still here.

“I don't _want_ your skanky ass, alright?” he hisses, just loud enough for her to hear. “Do I gotta get Joanie Barker to suck me off before you believe it?”

He can see that his words sting her, just like they did the night of the dinner—that night, _lord,_ the night it began, the night he lost himself...

But that's wrong. It's so wrong, to pin the start there. It started in her kitchen; it started in his car; it started with her walking down the stairs and hollering for her sister and setting her wide blue eyes on his.

That night wasn't the first time he saw her like that—it was the first time he knew what he was seeing. It was the first time he saw himself watching her and recognized the snake that ewes find in the bushes.

And it was the night she saw him, too. Saw what he really was, his bitter, rotten underbelly.

But she came back. He abused her, he spied on her, he all but punched her through the wall. He said things no one can take back, not if they try for a lifetime.

But she came to his door. She came to his room. She came to his bed. She came to his work and brought him to this diner and now she wants to take his hand and bring him somewhere new.

But she doesn't know him. Not like she should. She knows what her young body wants her to know; that a man's hands brought her to orgasm when no one else's had. She doesn't know where those hands come from.

She doesn't know what they smell like, after feeding venison to the dogs.

He wonders what he's showing on his face, for Beth to stare at him like that. For her to reach her hand out again. For her to care.

“I don't want to,” he whispers. “I don't...”

“Is everything alright here?”

He breaks his gaze from hers and the whole diner is staring at them. Karen is hovering a table away, a burly man in a chef's hat ready behind her.

Daryl remembers this scene. He remembers the sports clubs and the titty bars where his pop bribed the doormen to let him and Merle in. He remembers his ma drinking cocktail after cocktail, running up her husband's bill while he's distracted, numbing herself before he's worked himself up enough to come after her.

Daryl remembers it worse. He remembers mall trips, and baseball games. The few times they'd scraped some money together, tried to be a family. He remembers on line at Turner Field, him barely four and clinging to Merle while his Pop screamed at them, screamed until a small cotillion of cops had gathered. Will dragging them away before the police worked up the desire to intervene—Eleanor crying onto stony cheeks, Daryl covered with snot and confusion, Merle gripping his hand—while Pop takes them home where there aren't any cops to bother them, any nice decent families to judge the trailer trash they are.

Daryl slaps a hand to his face, but not quickly enough; even through his blurring eyes, he sees her mouth drop open at the salt that suddenly drips onto his cheeks.

“Just leave me alone,” he whispers. “Please, Beth...”

“Daryl—“

He leaves. He wrenches himself away, before he forgets himself. Before he does what he did that morning in his apartment, when he forgot who he was. Forgot that for all they might be brother and sister, it's his responsibility to keep his blood from her veins. Forgot that he has no right to drop to his knees and bury his head in her lap, like he suddenly wants to with a dangerous need; feel her hands in his hair and on the back of his neck as she sings to him, softly, the melody stroking his ears like the petals of a rose, her voice wrapped around him like something soft.

He doesn't look back once as he strides back to work; hides in the depths of the garage until he hears her engine rumble to life, her tires grind through the gravel.

He watches her drive away, though; peers through a dingy window, catches a glimpse of her blonde hair above the seat back. Feels like a creep, a stalker, a perv—but nothing worse than he's always been. Nothing worse than he is.

Everything before—her, him, her smile, his want—it wasn't right.

This is all there is.

This is how it's supposed to be.


	14. The Difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After chasing Beth away for good (he hopes, he dreads, he doesn't know what he feels), Daryl throws himself into work at the garage, using exhaustion to try to drown his demons. It works about as well as he expects, but takes a break for a bit when he meets someone more like him and his mother than he is quite ready for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary really saved my life with this chapter, so thank you <3
> 
> And thanks SO much to everyone who commented on the last chapter, and on my other stories. I've fallen too far behind on answering comments to ever catch up, but I just want you to know that I read and appreciate all of them. So thanks <3
> 
> Also, I'm introducing a character this chapter that a lot of people dislike. And that's ok. But it isn't an invitation to hate on her in the comments. If you don't like her or you think she's bad for Daryl or whatever, of course feel free to say it - but uncritical hate is not appreciated. Just saying.
> 
> Warnings for vague allusions to child sexual abuse, and rape mention.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter :)

Where before Daryl had sought solace in sleep, he spends the next few weeks working himself to exhaustion. He begins working days over 12 hours, cleaning the garage when he runs out of cars to fix, making junkyard runs for spare parts even when they’re overflowing with them. He usually doesn't get home until near midnight, stumbling and exhausted, falling into bed without dreams.

When he does dream, he knows what it's of. He doesn't remember the details, the sights, the sounds—but he knows. And it isn't even the morning wood that rages harder than ever, that he ignores with a fierceness akin to savagery, that tips him off.

It's the way he wakes up in the same position he fell asleep in. It's the way he doesn't sweat through the sheets, or twist them around his thrashing body.

It's the stillness. The calm. The way he wakes up with a thick throat and wet eyes and the feeling of air fleeing his grasping hands.

He knows what it feels like to be with her, and he knows what it feels like to wake with her missing.

He knows Aaron sees it in him, the strain he's putting on himself. Daryl knows Aaron is probably working himself up to asking about it—but he hasn't yet. And Daryl is grateful for every moment he holds himself back. He isn't ready to explain this to anyone, let alone his only friend. He can barely explain it to himself.

So he doesn’t. He doesn’t try. He goes through his days one step at a time, each footprint behind him fading away in the rising waves.

He doesn’t change it. He doesn’t want it to change.

This is his penance, and even unto exhaustion, he’ll carry it. He’ll carry it all.

* * *

He's in the yard spray-painting a banged up Hyundai when he hears familiar tires crunching on the gravel. He glances at the sun, and is impressed to see they're just on time.

He sets down the paint and pulls off his mask and gloves before walking to meet the truck—labeled in obnoxious blue and red “Axel's Spare Parts LTD”—where it's parked by the door to the storage room at the back of the garage.

Axel is taking his time to emerge, so Daryl gets to work, pulling down the tailgate and hopping easily into the bed, making a quick inventory of the carefully packed tires and engine bits.

Theirs is the only above-board garage in town that uses Axel for spare parts; it's hard to find a legit owner willing to trust or work with the twitchy man, no matter his dirt-cheap prices. Daryl knows he spent some time inside for petty theft, and that he probably didn't come by all his merchandise legally—but he also grew up in Daryl's neighborhood. A few years behind Daryl, but still—no matter how much he hated the place, it was home, and homeboys stick together.

“You forgot the four-barrels again,” Daryl hollers as the truck door finally opens. “We got a Mustang and it don't take that two-barrel crap...”

Daryl trails off, frowning at the short-haired woman who's emerged from the cab.

“The fuck are you?” he asks.

She smiles, sticking a hand over the lip of the truck. He stares at her a moment before wiping his hand on his jeans and leaning down to shake hers. Her grip is stronger than he expects it to be.

“Carol,” she says. “Axel got a new account, I'm helping out with his deliveries.”

Daryl snorts, dropping her hand and straightening up. “He's calling them “accounts” now? When'd he get so professional?”

Carol smirks, leaning against the truck. “Well, maybe that isn’t the _exact_ word he used.” She nods at the items in the truck bed. “Need help offloading?” He eyes her skinny arms, eyebrows raised, and she rolls her eyes. “I think I can manage a headlight or two.”

“Don't strain yourself,” Daryl says.

“Ha ha. Toss something down, let's get started.”

It takes them a little over half an hour to finish. Even with Aaron called out to help with some of the heavier parts, by the time they're done Daryl is soaked with sweat, muscles tingling in a way that tells him he'll be sore tomorrow. Carol doesn't seem to be faring much better, but she doesn't complain once, even when she drops a box of brake discs on her foot. Daryl tries to tell her to sit down after that, but she'll have none of it—just keeps moving until the truck bed is empty and she can lean up against the taillight, mopping her face with one of Daryl's mostly-clean rags.

“Well, that's my workout for the year, I think.”

Daryl smirks, leaning on the opposite taillight and trying not to show that he's breathing as heavily as she is. “Hey, you offered.”

“Guess so.” She blows out a breath, running a hand through her hair until it sticks up all over her head. “I have a cooler of lemonade in the cab,” Carol says. “You want some?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

They settle at one of the picnic tables set up in the shade of the office awning, shivering a bit at the temperature difference between the cooler air and their overheated skin. Daryl pulls out his sandwich of the day (a piece of salami between two slices of un-toasted bread), consuming nearly half of it in one bite. He notices Carol eyeing him a little incredulously, and he tries to scowl through his full mouth.

“What?” he asks as he chews.

“That's all you're eating?”

“What are you, my mom?”

“If I was your mom you'd be wearing way more sunscreen,” she says, looking pointedly at his reddened neck.

Daryl rolls his eyes, biting into his sandwich again.

“Bite me,” he says.

“Maybe I will,” she says, winking. “After you shower, of course.”

Daryl smirks, and realizes in a sudden rush that he feels relaxed. Not as relaxed as he is when he's with Beth (at least the times when he forgets hims– forgot. Forgot. Past tense, past tense, there's no negotiation on that), but far more than he's been in anyone's company save Aaron's. Not for a long time. It's utterly peculiar, for him to feel this way about someone he's just met; but the day is hot enough, his limbs feeling enough like jelly, that he doesn't have the energy to do anything but accept it.

Carol sips at her lemonade while Daryl finishes his sandwich, sucking the crumbs off his fingers and ignoring Carol's rolled eyes. With a huff of air, he rests his forearms on the tabletop, looking past the parking lot to the road beyond. It's a lazy summer day in Georgia; a few cars roll by every minute, unhurried, engines rumbling in a comforting purr.

After so long working with cars—with the sole purpose of _getting_ them working—Daryl's come to find himself lulled by the sound of a working engine. It's like the feeling he got taking hits from Merle's joints, when his brother insisted—something deep in his gut, a sense of rightness and contentment.

He felt it that morning, waking up with Beth in his arms. Before he realized what the wet stain on his leg was, before he knew what was happening, before he looked down and found his teenage step-sister grinding against him.

Part of him knows that he knew what was going on long before he reacted to it—and in the buried bits of his mind, he admits that is true. And still, he held that sense of ease in his chest, a peace that had less to do with her cunt against his leg and so much to do with her scent enveloping him; the warm, comforting weight of her, limp and languid and trusting him with her rest. How she pressed against him not all for sexual satisfaction, he imagined, but to get close. To be closer. To feel his body against her body in the early morning dim.

He aches, then. It's been almost as long since he talked to her as it was before their night together. But this time there have been no messages on his phone. No knocks on his door.

He gave in a few days ago and tried the banana bread but by that time it had grown mold. He took it to the dumpster down the street and tossed it, tupperware and all. He doubts she’ll be back for it, anyway.

It's too late, he thinks. Everything is too late.

“Daryl? Earth to Daryl?”

Daryl blinks, jerking his head around to look at Carol where she's staring at him.

“What?”

“You were on another planet for a bit. You mooning over a girl or something?”

Daryl blanches, then blushes. He scowls as Carol's eyes light up. Even with strangers, he's never been able to hide his emotions.

“It _is_ a girl. Or a guy?” Daryl huffs out a breath, sipping his lemonade roughly. “Right. Girl, then.” She nudges his calf with her foot. “Well. Come on. Tell me about her.”

“Nothing to tell,” he mutters. “It ain't happening.”

“How do you know that?”

“I told her so.”

“Why?”

Daryl shakes his head, looking at the table. “Don't matter.”

“If you're this torn up about it, I'd say it does.”

Daryl scowls at her. “I met you an hour ago and you're already making theories about me?”

Carol raises her hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry.” She lowers her hands, tilting her head at him. “I'm just curious.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Axel doesn't need me back for a few hours. I don't have anything better to do.”

Daryl twists his lips, sips at his drink. He gestures at her with the straw in his hand. “What about you? You'n Axel? He sure as fuck doesn't have the cash for employees.”

Carol colors under cheeks already flushed from the heat. She takes a gulp of lemonade before responding. “He's helping me,” she says. She notes Daryl's expression and says, “He isn't coercing me into anything, if that's what you're thinking. We're in the... working it out stage.”

“What's there to work out? Man has a functioning dick, don't he?”

Daryl is almost disappointed when she hardly reacts to his crudity.

“As far as I know,” she says dryly. “Things are... well, things are complicated.”

 _Can't be more complicated than mine,_ Daryl thinks, scowling at the table.

“He's been hiding my daughter and I from my husband.” Daryl looks up. Carol is nearly expressionless. “My friend is married to the sheriff's deputy; she told me that Ed got picked up for assault last night. Today’s the first time I've been off the junkyard in months.” Carol snorts, looking at the awning above them. “When in doubt, hide with the trash, I guess.”

Daryl is quiet for a long time, taking her in. He sees it, now he knows what to look for. The splotchy skin. The uneven collar bone. Her hyper-alert eyes and shoulders always tensed, ready to fight or flee. Daryl consciously lowers his own shoulders, clearing his throat.

“You friends with the sheriff's wife, why didn't he get it before now?”

He's not sure why he asks the question, because he knows. His ma comes from a big family, full of big women, big men. One phone call would've had them over the border and Will Dixon at the bottom of the river before the line clicked back to dial tone.

But it's not that simple. It's never that simple.

She must know he knows it, because she ignores his question, watching her lemonade swirl as she stirs it with her straw.

“I should have done this so long ago,” she says softly, staring at the whirlpool. “I always knew it would be different, being away from him, but I never expected it to feel so... good. But bad too. Really bad.” She meets Daryl's eyes, and chuckles self-deprecatingly. “I don't really know where I'm going.”

 _Ain't that the truth,_ Daryl thinks, squinting at her. She's stopped actively sweating, but her skin still holds its oily sheen, shimmering even in the shade.

“How old's your daughter?” he asks.

“Twelve,” she says. “Her name is Sophia. She was... it was for her. I...” Carol trails off, swallowing heavily, and Daryl suddenly wonders why she's sharing all this. Does she know who he is? Does she know they share so similar a story?

Or has she simply reached the end of her rope and is looking for someone new to drag her back to shore?

“He hurt her?”

“Yes,” Carol says, voice hard. “He did for a long time. I knew about it for a long time. I didn't do anything.” She looks at him, eyes burning. ”And one day I did. Packed up and picked Sophia up from school and went to Axel's. I met him at the grocery store. He's the only person I know that Ed doesn't. I knew without us he wouldn't be able to stop himself from hurting anyone else.” She takes in a deep breath. Lets it out. “There was rape too, on his charges,” Carol says. “Attempted rape. It was on a prostitute, though, so the charge will probably be dropped, unless Rick finds a miracle.” Carol swallows. “Lori told me her name. I've seen her around, when Ed invited people over. At first I... I always thought she was just a few years older than Sophia. She's legal, but that's what she looks like. Looks a little like Sophia too.”

Daryl feels sick. Physically sick, like a few sentences more will have him retching in the dirt.

But she doesn't continue. Just sits there, waving absent-mindedly to keep a fly from her drink. Daryl didn't expect his day to go like this.

He never seems to expect anything that happens in his life. Not anything at all.

“My ma never left my dad,” Daryl says. The words surprise him. But they also don't. They've been inside him for decades. “He died a while ago but she never left him. She thinks she has, but I dunno. Ain't no leaving a man like that.”

“Your mother is very brave,” Carol says quietly.

Daryl's head jerks up, anger sparking hot in his stomach.

“She watched me get the shit beat outta me on the regular while she was drinking herself to sleep. How the fuck is that _brave_?”

“She survived, didn't she?”

Daryl goes quiet at that. He stares at Carol, and she stares back, neither of them blinking even as flies zip around between them.

“She could'a done something—“

“What could she do?” Carol asks. Her cheeks are flushing again, and she begins to sound agitated. “Call the cops on him? Have to testify before a hundred greedy strangers every awful thing he's done to her? That she let him do to her kids? Or should she have run away, always looking over her shoulder, always wondering...” Carol swallows, clenches and unclenches her fist on the table. “I'm not going to tell anyone what he did to me. What he did to Sophia. He's not going to have the pleasure of seeing that wrung out of me. But that means when he gets out, he can come after us. And if he finds us, he'll kill us. He'll kill us and he won't care about the consequences because our souls will belong to him forever. And when he dies, from a heart attack or cancer or getting knifed behind a bar, we'll be dragged down to Hell right along with him because he _owns us_.”

Daryl recognizes the signs of a panic attack in Carol's blown pupils and fluttering pulse but he feels frozen to his seat, his mouth sewn shut. He wouldn't know how to stop it, anyway. He can only listen, and try to stave off his own.

“You think I made a better decision than your mom did? I don't know. I don't know.” Carol sits back, running the fingers of one hand through her own hair, over and over again. “Survival. That's all that matters, survival. No matter what choice you make, as long as you survive it's worth it.”

“But that ain't living,” Daryl says without his own consent, as if someone is speaking through him. “That ain't... you think that's worth it? You think surviving like Ma did is better than trying to _live_? Even for a minute?”

“I do,” Carol says softly. She sighs, shutting her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, her pupils have shrunk down a bit. He sees her pulse thumping more steadily in her neck. “You don't have to think it, though. I'm not above being wrong.”

“Nah, I just... I don't know why I said that. I don't believe it or nothing, just...”

He looks at his hands, curled on the table. No matter the rubbing he'd done against his jeans, they are still filthy; he doesn't remember the last time there wasn't at least a hint of darkened skin against his palms and knuckles.

His knuckles are hard. He hasn't gotten into a fight in a long time—save the kid who'd been coming onto Beth at that party—but he keeps in shape when he can. Goes to Axel's end of the junkyard when the voices in his head get to be too much, when he can't sleep; heaves tires and punches cinder blocks until he's bleeding. The blisters have broken and scabbed and thickened into calluses that he feels when he rubs his eyes in the morning. Several of them are frayed and broken, from picking at them when his thumbs are bitten to bits.

He knows Carol is giving him a peculiar look; is waiting for him to say something, probably, explain what the hell he's doing staring at himself like this. He couldn't explain it, though. Not if he tried.

“I dunno either,” he says. “Dunno nothing.”

Carol snorts, looking past the awning towards the sky. “Maybe that’s the point.”

They finish their drinks in silence, and she leaves soon after that. No referral back to their conversation. Daryl sees her physically binding all those words back inside herself; preparing to face her kid, maybe. Or herself. And Daryl can’t help wondering how many times his ma has done that, through the years, before he knew how to recognize it.

Before he goes back to work he calls her. She doesn’t pick up, and he lets it ring through to voicemail. Listens to the voice message she still hasn’t bothered to change, has had since before his Pop died, since she got this phone once he’d gone too off the deep end to keep such close watch over her.

“This is Eleanor Dixon, leave a—yes, Daryl, I know how it works, stop pestering me—this is El—This is Eleanor Dixon, dammit,” she begins to laugh, “leave a fucking message.”

Daryl smiles a little, hearing it. Recognizing in it, a little, the mix of the woman she is now with the woman she was then. The meeting of two worlds, maybe. DWD and AWD—During Will Dixon, and After.

Maybe one day he’ll measure it Before and After Hershel Greene. Maybe one day Hershel will have a strong enough hold on his psyche, a strong enough presence in his life, to measure his months and days by him.

There’s only one measurement that means anything, though, he thinks as he pulls the mask back over his face, besides that of his father. One person, one voice, that speaks in his head of before and after, of now and the past. And although he could blame the weight in his chest on the paint fumes, it still aches to think of her. Still aches to know what the man he became During Will Dixon has done to her.

What, if he can’t control himself—like Will Dixon, like Carol’s Ed—he has yet to do.


	15. Ride The Wire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have shifted after Daryl's conversation with Carol; not enough to change things, not really, but they've shifted. When he gets a call for help from Hershel, he worries that the wrong things might click into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mary :)
> 
> Please remember to review!

He's on break the next day—in the AC of Aaron's office, for once; the heat's hit upwards of 100 and the man has definite mommy-ing tendencies when it comes to Daryl outside in the heat—when his phone rings and he sees Hershel's name.

He spends a few rings blinking at it, not entirely comprehending what that collection of letters means. He doesn't think Hershel has ever called him before. No one calls him, except Aaron and his mother. And Beth, once upon a time.

Thoughts of Beth shake him out of his stupor— _what if something's wrong with her?_ —and he answers just before it goes to voicemail.

“Hello?” he says, glancing at Aaron where he's working on paperwork.

“Daryl,” Hershel says, his voice tinny over Daryl's crappy phone. “How are you?”

“Uh. I'm a'right. What's up?”

“I know this is probably a terrible imposition, and I assume you've been at work all day anyway, but... my truck won't start, and with funds the way they are, especially with the wedding coming up, I can't afford to tow it to a shop or hire a private mechanic unless it's actually fixable. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind taking a look, give me a diagnosis.”

“Yeah, 'course,” Daryl says. “6:30 tonight alright?”

“Yes,” Hershel says, voice heavy with relief. “You don't know what a weight off my mind this is. I'll pay you for your time, of course.”

“You're paying for my ma's room and board, you're good.”

Hershel chuckles, and Daryl feels his cheeks pink a little. “How about dinner, then? It's been a long time since we've seen you.”

“Yeah, ok,” Daryl says.

“Good. I'll see you at 6:30, then.”

“Yeah. Bye.”

Daryl hangs up. He stares at his phone. The hand cupping it is shaking a little.

“That was Hershel?” Aaron asks distractedly, still focused on his paperwork.

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “Car trouble.”

“Don't forget the business cards.”

Normally Daryl would rib him about that—Eric works for an ad agency and he's always going on about the damn business cards—but his mind is too full for that.

It has been a long time since he's seen them. His mother, Hershel. Beth. He's not sure he's ready for it.

He remembers what Carol said when she left yesterday, wryly accepting a can of spray paint that she could use as mace, if she needs it. She'd paused when she had been about to swing into the cab, turning to him where he stood by the side.

“You’ll tell me about that girl someday,” she said, brushing past Daryl’s tensed look. “I’m calling it now. A man who looks like you do isn’t getting over her any time soon.”

 _It wouldn’t take a genius to figure that out,_ Daryl thinks, fiddling with the remnants of his sandwich.

He isn’t hungry anymore, but he can’t bring himself to throw it out, not yet. He looks at his rough fingers against the cheap white bread and almost bursts out laughing.

The light had been dim in his room, the morning he took her, but not dim enough to obscure her features, the contrast of their skin on skin. Satin and sandpaper. His heavy, ripping hands on her white bread.

He's thinking of this as he pulls up to the farm that evening, sun still bright in the sky despite the late hour, and for a moment he considers going north. Escaping this oppressive heat, the never-ending days, the air so damn full of humidity and hayseeds he can taste it in solid globs when his windows are open at a traffic light. He wonders what people would think of him up there. Whether they would see just another example of white trash infecting their communities, or if he'd be a novelty, a curiosity to be explored. He honestly doesn't know which option would sicken him more; but whatever it would be, it wouldn't be here. It wouldn't be bright blue skies and tufts of cloud. It wouldn't be swaying wheat and lowing cows and dust billowing in the wake of his truck. It wouldn't be Hershel Greene rising from his seat on the porch to greet him, descending the steps as Daryl emerges from the cab, squinting into the sun.

“You made it, son, thank you,” Hershel says, coming up to shake Daryl's hand. Hershel's own hands are stained with grit, so Daryl doesn't bother to wipe his own before meeting the older man's grasp.

“Said I would,” Daryl says, pulling his hand back and using it to push his hair away from his forehead. No matter the wind that had been rushing through the open windows of his truck, the heat is a bitch.

“My daughters say they'll do something, I expect a few dozen excuses and complaints before they finally get down to business,” Hershel says lightly. “Bless those girls, I love them, but it's good to know I'll be inviting someone more like myself to the family.”

Daryl grunts through the heating of his cheeks, not quite sure why he feels so suddenly embarrassed. Maybe it's just that the reminder of their impending relation is, as always, a bit too much.

“Your mother is inside,” Hershel says, indicating with his head that Daryl should follow him to the old truck parked a few dozen yards from the house. “Kept pestering me to get inside too, that the heat is too much for a man with health like mine—we compromised with the porch. So if you start thinking I'm lazing around, just remember it's your mother's fault.”

Daryl's smirk at that is entirely genuine. “She'd always yell at me when I wanted to go out with Merle and his friends,” Daryl says. “Said those fuckers weren't good for me, ought'a stay in the house where she could keep an eye on me. Usually drunk off her ass and ready to pass out, but she still said it.”

Daryl is worried for a moment, that he shouldn't have said that to someone who's probably gone through similar experiences; but Hershel's matching smirk takes that weight off his chest.

“And did you leave when she passed out?”

Daryl shrugs. “Only thing Merle and his friends'd get up to was getting high and talking pussy. Least at home we had Loony Toons.”

Hershel snorts. “Maggie and Shawn loved Loony Toons. Beth never liked watching them, didn't understand why they could never get along. She adored that bulldog and kitten though.”

Daryl remembers those characters. The dog more than ten times the cat's size, big and mean and angry at the world—but melting at the smallest meow. The thought of Beth watching that—little Beth, with her hair in pigtails, maybe, footsy pajamas or overalls, little eyes rapt with wonder as she gazes at the screen—it makes something in his chest expand and shrink all at once and he isn't able to say anything more until they reach the truck.

Daryl clears his throat before he begins. “So what's wrong with her?”

Hershel begins his explanation, and Daryl listens, but only with half an ear; he could fix most engine issues in his sleep at this point, but he's standing at ground zero of the issue he doesn't think he'll ever be able to solve. Hershel goes around the car to show him something and Daryl glances up at the house, at the window he knows belongs to her; imagines boys— _imagines Jimmy, fucking Jimmy_ —standing in this very spot, tossing rocks at the glass. It would be an easy enough climb down for a determined escapee, dropping from the window to the porch roof, shimmying down the eaves; he bets that's how she got out to go to the party. He wonders what else she's snuck out to do.

 _Not much of anything,_ he thinks as her father gestures towards the exposed engine, remembering with a rush of heat the way she'd looked at him when he touched her pussy, when she told him he was the first person in the world besides herself to feel those slick folds, the mat of hair, liquid falling in a continuous drip towards the sheets. A girl her age, hasn't gotten into that type of trouble—she's shy, maybe. Maybe she's saving herself.

 _Maybe she hasn't met the right person,_ Daryl's mind whispers.

He stops that thought. He stops that thought right there.

“So. You think there's anything you can do?”

Daryl snaps back to attention, and tries frantically to reconstruct in his head what Hershel had been saying.

“Yeah, I'd say so,” he says. “I'll need to take a look, open her up, but I could probably fix it.”

Hershel lets out a rush of air, smiling in a way that reminds Daryl painfully of the man's daughter. “Now that is good to hear,” he says. He pats Daryl on the shoulder, and Daryl only flinches a little. “Why don't we have a seat and cool down before you get started, though? Might as well let the temperature go down a bit more. Got plenty of daylight left.”

Daryl's skin itches, knowing the longer he stays the more chance he has of running into Beth; but he has no good reason to say no, and some twisted part of him is pleased that Hershel wants his company.

So he nods, and follows Hershel to the porch, where the older man sinks into his seat with a sigh. Daryl follows suit, not relaxing quite as completely as Hershel does, but more than he expected he'd be able to.

They sit silently for a few minutes, looking out across the farm, and Daryl is struck, as he always is, by the peace of it all. He doesn't know how close their nearest neighbors are, but it must be a few miles, at least; and the slight valley the house itself is sunk in means someone would have to be quite close before disturbing them. Daryl can't imagine growing up without living cheek-by-jowl with his neighbors, with his own family. In the house, he shared a bed with Merle; in the trailer, Merle was gone, but even so, all Daryl had was a pile of blankets on the bench next to the stove, the space too small to even stretch out in. He was woken whenever his ma or pop stumbled past to use the bathroom, often stayed awake long after they laid back down, listening until the snores started up again before he could relax.

Here, he could have stretched out. Here he could have had things of his _own,_ a space of his own, objects belonging to him without the need to scrap and scrabble to keep them his. Hershel doesn't look at his land and see something that others will take away; he sees the dirt. He sees the waving grass. He sees the barn, has probably stood in the same spot for generations; sees the birds taking off and landing in the fields, the bugs buzzing and germinating his seeds. He has the allowance, the space, to see the beauty in things, instead of the ugliness of all there is to lose.

Sitting here and sipping from a cup of that security makes Daryl feel slightly ill, even as it buoys something in his chest, makes it light enough to bring tears to his eyes.

 _When something belongs to you, and you belong to it, that's home,_ he thinks.

He doesn't even have to wonder who that voice in his head sounds like.

“Beautiful day,” Hershel says, reaching to the table between them and pouring two glasses of lemonade from the waiting pitcher. “Hot as sin, of course, but still beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says, grunting his thanks as Hershel hands him a glass.

“You know I inherited this place when I was 19 years old?”

Daryl looks at him, eyebrows raised. “Nah, I didn't.”

Hershel shakes his head, a little smile on his face. “Don't know how I survived that first year, to be honest. If it weren't for our neighbors helping out I would have foreclosed after one crop.” Hershel leans back, surveying his land. “I hated this place then,” he muses. “Hated the way I'd grown up, hated that I couldn't go to college, hated that the death of a man I never liked much anyway had landed all this responsibility on me.” He sips his drink, mouth making little sucking noises against the straw. “It took a lot to love it. To realize the love it gave me, if I loved it back. What it could provide for me and my children.” He looks at Daryl, eyes keen beneath his white brows. “You've been caring for your mother for a long time, haven't you?”

Daryl grunts, taking a nervous sip. He isn't sure where this conversation is going, and he almost wishes they could leave it for now so he can get to work on the truck.

“Bethy told me it hurts you, to see your mother happy here,” Hershel says. Daryl forces himself not to move, to stare straight ahead with blank eyes. “That you think it's a show she's putting on for your benefit, for ours. Is that right?”

Daryl grunts again, stares at the truck with what he knows must be pleading eyes.

“I know this isn't something you want to talk about, but we should.” Daryl is aware of Hershel sitting forward next to him. “I love your mother, Daryl,” Hershel says. “I know that confuses you, because for a long time loving her has been _your_ job. But just because I'm here doesn't mean she doesn't need you.”

 _He thinks it's ‘cause of Ma, why I ain't been here,_ Daryl thinks, looking at Hershel out of the corner of his eye. He feels the impulse to sneer at the old man; set him straight, maybe. Let Hershel know the other person he loves that Daryl's got his mitts on.

He doesn't say it, of course. But he suddenly wants to. And not to hurt him.

Because for some reason, Hershel Greene is looking at him like he wants to listen. He's looking at Daryl like he cares.

Daryl needs someone besides himself to care about this. To know what it feels like to have Beth beneath his eyes, beneath his hands. To know how much he misses her, misses the days when his thoughts weren't wrapped around cunts and cocks and he could just _be_ with her, be with her like Hershel can be with his fields and his valleys and his fiancée, like he can be with the ones he—

“I don't have any right to lecture you,” Hershel says, interrupting Daryl's train of thought. “I am not your father, and I don't want to be. Not in the way you know a father to be, at least. I will not be that again.” Daryl glances at Hershel, and sees his face has gone haggard, heavy as if with memory. “But it hurts your mother, you not coming here. She doesn't say it much, but I can see it.” Hershel sighs, and Daryl feels the weight of his gaze leave him, return to the fields. “I know what it's like to want to shed your obligations. To feel you don't deserve them. And I know that love, no matter how unconditional, no matter how desperate, can become the greatest burden there is. But I want you to know that it does not have to lie squarely on your back. Not anymore. You don't have to bear it alone.” Daryl jumps a little when he feels Hershel's hand land on his shoulder. The man doesn't grip him, or hold him tight—but he does refuse to be shaken off. He doesn't speak until Daryl peeks at him from the corner of his eye. “You are family, Daryl. No matter what happens between me and your mother, between you and any of us, you are family. And I want that to start to mean something different to you than I suspect it has in the past.”

_Family mean so much to you? You had a fucking family, and where'd they go, huh? Seem pretty ready to forget that dead mom of yours now you got a shiny new one._

Daryl flinches as his own words, shouted only a few feet away from where they sit, come roaring back to him. Hershel takes the flinch as discomfort, and removes his hand, but Daryl has a sudden, desperate wish for it to return. A wish to be touched, to be held, to feel in the press of body to body what this damn family means when they say that word. What they mean when they speak it to him like some kind of holy rite. Why it makes him ache so, somewhere deep in his chest, when all his life it’s only been a searing numbness.

Hershel is no longer touching him, but he is looking at him, like he expects a response.

And Daryl wishes it were Beth here, instead of her father. Because she wouldn't need anything back from him. Not even his understanding. All she would need is for him to hear her.

 _I miss her,_ Daryl thinks. And not the way his father would miss his mother, stumbling home after bender on bender, dragging her to the bedroom for a fumble she can't escape. He misses Beth like he thinks you're supposed to miss things. Like the feeling you get just before a broken engine rumbles to life, before a melody resolves. A sense of _wrongness_ , trembling on the edge of right. Just close enough to be within shouting distance, too far to touch. A step to the right or the left, waiting for his feet to listen to his brain and make that move.

He thinks about family. He thinks about belonging to things. He thinks about going north.

“I dunno if I understand it yet,” Daryl says. He forces himself to look at Hershel as he speaks. “I dunno if I could. But I wanna try, I think. For Ma, you know?”

When he smiles, Hershel looks so much like Beth that it takes Daryl's breath away. The words he speaks give it back.

“Good man, Daryl,” Hershel says. “Good man.”

* * *

Daryl's about to shout for another wrench when he hears her voice.

From his position on the creeper, rolled beneath the truck, it could be anyone's voice, really. It could be his ma's, for all he knows. But when he twists his neck to look towards the outside world, he sees Hershel's heavy boots facing a pair of flip-flopped feet—small, delicate, pale, tipped with the same pink that decorates her nails. One of her feet is turned towards her father and one towards the truck, and Daryl imagines she's looking at his feet too.

He stays frozen under the truck for several minutes—waiting for her to leave, for them to call him, he doesn't know. But when he realizes he's spent the whole time lying there, not even making the noises to pretend he's working—he feels a flare of anger at himself. A flare of anger at her, for reducing him to this, a chump who hides beneath cars because her pretty pink nail-polish burns like drain cleaner sliding down his throat.

With a clench of his muscles, he rolls out from beneath the truck, and sits up.

He interrupts her in the middle of giggling at something her father had said, and when she turns to him with that smile on her face he could swear his heart grows a few sizes; just as it atrophies, as that joy slides away to be replace by a guarded caution, a hardness seeping out the edges of her eyes.

She's never looked at him like this.

“You about ready for a break, Daryl?” Hershel asks. “It's going on past dinner time, and we got some chicken from the market could be broiled up nice.”

“Ye-yeah,” Daryl says, dragging his eyes away from Beth where she stands, looking painfully pretty in a flowered pink sundress. “Yeah, dinner'd be nice.”

“Excellent,” Hershel says, leaning forward to kiss his daughter's cheek. Beth's answering smile is tight, but Hershel doesn't notice. “Leave the tools right where they are and come on inside; we can pick this up some other time. Bethy, you want to get some beans ready?”

“I'll be right in, Daddy, I wanna talk to Daryl for a minute.”

Daryl's gut roils uncomfortably as Hershel pats his daughter on the shoulder before walking away, leaving them alone, fully alone, for the first time since the garage's parking lot where she told him he was amazing.

 _Can't be thinking that now,_ Daryl thinks.

Whatever it is, she's thinking hard about something, staring at the truck while Daryl stares at her. When she looks at him at last the force of her gaze is like a punch in the gut.

She doesn't look angry, like she should, or disgusted. She just looks sad.

“You look real nice,” Daryl says.

He doesn't mean to; he knows how inappropriate it is, knows he has no right to look at her, let alone make that kind of observation.

He can't help it though. She does. She looks like the prettiest girl in the world in her flowy pink dress, a light sunburn building across the bridge of her nose, tendrils of hair blowing loose around her ponytail. She looks pretty, and girls like her deserve to know it.

Some of her sadness seems to melt away at his words even as her mouth hardens. Her hands clench and unclench at her sides as she regards him, head tilting just the smallest bit.

“You been alright?” she asks.

Daryl can't help the laugh he barks out either.

“No,” he says. “No, I ain't been alright.”

Beth nods, like it's what she expected. He doesn't think she wanted it, though. He doesn't think that.

“C'mon in when you're ready,” she says. “I... your mama's been missing you.”

She walks away after that. Doesn't wait for his reply, not even for his face to change. She turns, and she walks away from him.

It's all Daryl deserves, really. It's all he deserves.

* * *

It's a horrible cliché, that he's back here and smoking after dinner; but this whole thing's been a cliché start to finish. No reason to end that now.

It's good to see his ma. He didn't expect it to be this good. He didn't realize how much he'd missed her, all these weeks with Beth on his mind. And he didn't expect her to miss him; not enough to hug him—a full body hug, arms around his neck and body pressed to his like in those five seconds she could make up for all those years without touch. It stunned Daryl silent for a good hour; not that he would have spoken much anyway. Not with Beth there, reminding him.

Especially not after the look she gave him, when he separated from his ma. A smile, quiet and warm. Proud, maybe. She's proud of him.

Daryl takes a deep drag on his cigarette, letting it gush out of his mouth into the falling night. It isn't fully dark, although it's pushing eight o'clock, but it's far enough into dusk that the lightning bugs are emerging, flittering across the fields, clouding the lights on the porch. It's been a long time since Daryl sat somewhere like this: enjoyed the air, the quiet, the murmur of voices from inside, the laughter. He's probably only done it a handful of times in his life, but still—he missed it.

He isn't surprised when he hears the screen door click open and shut; it doesn't even raise his heartbeat that much. He's too lulled, by the large meal and the nicotine in his lunges, the night, the sight of her filling him up from an hour sat at the same table. Not looking at each other, not officially; but the snuck glances, the corners of the eye—they were more than nothing. They were more than Daryl had had in weeks, than he deserves to ever have again, and the knowledge that it might happen again, at other dinners, is enough to give him peace. No matter what their relationship, no matter what he's fucked up—he will still see her. And like a man in the desert those small sips will be enough.

They have to be.

But now she's here, her flip-flops making soft slapping sounds as she pads across the deck, slides down to sit beside him on the steps without a word. Her feet are on the step just below her, pushing her knees high enough that she can lean her elbows on them. She's just close enough that he can feel the ghost of her presence against his arm, and it makes something he can't name clench tight in his chest.

“Beans were good,” he says, breaking the quiet.

There's a moment of quiet before Beth snorts softly, tilting a little into him. “You're full of compliments today, aren't you?”

Daryl snorts back, pressing his thumb to the butt of his cigarette, watching the ash dribble away.

“Guess so,” he says.

They're quiet for some time after that. Sitting. Just sitting, in the other's company, enjoying the night. Beth doesn't say anything about Daryl's cigarette but he doesn't light another when he finishes the first, although he has a hankering for one; just stubs it out on his boot and lays it on the porch beside him to deal with later. He leans forward to mirror Beth's pose, blowing his last lungful of smoke into the night.

“Theo's got a new girlfriend.”

Daryl looks at Beth, frowning. “Who?”

Beth looks at him, raising her eyebrows, and it makes his heart pound to see her this close.

“Theo. My ex. The guy whose car you beat up.”

“ _We_ beat up,” Daryl says.

They sit, staring at each other; then a small smirk begins to climb up Beth's face, and Daryl lets himself slump deeper into his seat in relief.

“Yeah. We beat it up pretty good, too.” Beth smiles at him for a long moment, then lets it drop; sighs, looking out towards the fields. “Isn't even Joanie. I mean, of course it isn't, she doesn't date anyone she does that to—it's a code or something—but whatever. It's some senior girl from his calculus class.” Beth glances down at herself, then sighs again. “Got big boobs, too. Like, the hugest. Carries them around like bowling balls.”

Daryl hears the self-deprecation hidden in her taunting, and it hits him like a sledgehammer, the urge to reach over and cup her breast. Her small, beautiful breast; softly curved, capped with gumdrop nipples that perk up at the slightest touch. He wants to reach over and touch her—feel the heft of her in his palm, roll her nipple between his knuckles, lean down and kiss across the arch of her. He wants to take her whole breast in his mouth and make her forget everything this Theo jackass has ever said or done.

He doesn't, of course. He doesn't reach for another cigarette either, although his anxiety is screaming for it. He winds his hands together between his knees, squeezing his palms against each other like he has something of hers between them.

He doesn't say anything either, although he knows she's waiting for him to. He doesn't trust himself to open his mouth and not lay it against her skin.

“It doesn't hurt as much as I thought it would,” Beth finally says. She's looking at him indirectly, from the corner of her eye, like she's measuring his reactions. “I didn't love him or anything. We dated for a long time but I never felt... I dunno. I never felt. I guess that was the problem.”

Daryl grunts softly, to show he's listening—maybe to show he understands. Maybe that too.

“What about you? You seeing anyone?”

Daryl does look at her now, a little incredulously. She giggles a little. At least she has the grace to blush.

“I didn't mean... I dunno. I'm asking. I'm just asking. I'm curious.”

“Ain't seeing anyone,” Daryl mumbles, picking at his thumbnail. He's quiet for several moments. “Never saw anyone, really.”

“What?” Beth says, not bothering to hide her surprise. “Like, not ever?”

Daryl shrugs. “Never made much sense to me,” he says, quiet, like there's something out there he might disturb. “With my ma and pop like... you know. Like they were. Dunno why anyone'd step into that willingly.”

“You know there are people who make it work, right? You do?”

Daryl snorts. “Yeah. None of them are Dixons, though.”

“Oh,” Beth says softly.

Daryl glances at her. She's staring at her hands where they clasp, held tight between her knees.

“Ma ain't a Dixon, though,” Daryl says. “Not really. Her and Hershel got that going for them, at least.”

“I guess.” Beth keeps staring at her hands, then looks at him. It is almost full dark, and the light from the porch lamp reflects brightly in her eyes. “You think they'll make it together? My dad, and your mom?”

Daryl frowns at her, shrugs. “Got as good a chance as anyone. What, you think they won't?”

“No, I know they will, I'm just... I wanted to know what you think. That's all.”

“Oh.” Daryl shifts in his seat, brushing against her bare arm in the process. A moment later, she shivers violently. “You cold?”

“Huh? Oh, no. No, I'm fine.” She's blushing now, he realizes; a delicate flush across her nose and cheeks, and it makes his own color build until they're sitting there blushing like idiots.

They stare at each other, shoulders close enough to touch, and at the same moment break into laughter.

It's quiet laughter—her in giggles, him in chuckles—but laughter nonetheless; and they don't take their eyes off each other as they do it. Stare into the other's eyes until tears build in their own and their gasps for air fall into one breath.

Daryl quiets first, and gets to watch Beth calm herself down, pink lips fluttering and pushing together as she tries to tamp down the noises bubbling up from inside her. She looks at him, and another laugh bursts forth. She catches it with a hand clamped across her mouth.

“Don't look at me like that,” she says, voice muffled by her palm.

“Like what?” he asks, teeth bared as he grins.

“Like,” she bumps him with her shoulder, “like _that_.”

“You're cuckoo, girl.”

Beth rolls her eyes. She leans into him and this time doesn't pull away. “I know _that_ ,” she says. “You are too.”

“Nah,” Daryl says, leaning right back. “I'm, what's the word, _stoic_. Don't got a cuckoo bone in my body.”

“Uh-huh,” Beth says sarcastically, leaning towards his face, “I'm _totally_ convinced.”

They spend several moments like that—shoulders pressed together, Daryl's head tilted down, Beth's neck stretched until Daryl can feel her breath on his teeth. He feels the rousing between his legs—he would expect no less—but for some reason it doesn't bother him. It doesn't consume him, like it has in the past. It's the byproduct of being with her, not the reason for it.

So when she relaxes back into her seat, grin like the sun come back into the sky, he doesn't follow her; remains where he is, _stoic,_ looking down on her with his own form of happiness.

And he is, he realizes.

He's happy.

He's happy here with her.

Her smile softens until it's little more than a lift of her cheeks, but he still sees it there. It still warms him. It still makes him soft too.

“Beth—“

He sees in her eyes that they hear it at the same moment; she looks towards the road, then gives him a quizzical frown before standing. He follows her down the porch, standing at her shoulder as they watch the approaching lights.

“You invited your sister?” Daryl asks.

Beth shakes her head. “Ain't her car either, she has a Honda, the headlights ain't like that.” Her frown deepens as the car skids towards the side of the road before correcting itself. “She's a better driver too...”

Daryl feels it building in his gut, the knowledge of who's in that car. It gets his heart thumping again.

“Maybe you ought'a go inside, Beth.”

She frowns at him. “Why?”

He doesn't reply; just clenches his fists and steps forward, waiting for the vehicle to roll to a haphazard stop, half on the drive, half on the grass. He feels a tinge of annoyed worry as Beth follows, but not enough to stop her.

He stands with Beth, side by side, his shoulders squared to meet his brother as he stumbles out of the broken down car.


	16. Her Father's Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beth and Daryl were close to something on the porch before Merle showed up. But now he's here, and both of their pasts seem to come with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence and discussion of past abuse. And, of course, Merle's mouth.

Daryl is keyed up enough that he can't stop the words in his head from falling out of his mouth.

“Shit, Merle, you look awful.”

He really does. Gaunt cheeks, dark circles beneath his eyes, hair and beard growing scraggly and untrimmed.

As he stumbles forward into the light, Daryl sees more. Dilated pupils. Sweat dribbling in steady streams down his temples. Hands twitching like he's shivering.

“Merle—“

“Didn't expect to see you here, Darylina,” Merle slurs, staggering forward a few more steps. “Thought you'd be running for the hills by now. Or full up on Daddy's shotgun.” Merle arches his neck, looking towards the house. “Where is Daddy Warbucks anyway, huh? Hey! Old man!” he hollers. “Get on out here and pay up. What, this pissant gets full course meals but you're too good to entertain ol' Merle?”

“Merle, you're high,” Daryl says, stepping forward with his hands up. “C'mon and I'll take you home—“

“Merle Dixon!”

Daryl freezes as his ma's voice blasts between his temples—thick with accent, devoid of the happy lilt she's gained since meeting Hershel, harsh and heavy and dripping with nicotine—and suddenly Daryl is back in that ratty old trailer, watching his ma kicking Merle towards the door.

“What the holy hell do you think you're doing here?” Eleanor yells from the porch; Daryl glances back long enough to see her and Hershel standing side by side, much like he and Beth are; except Eleanor looks livid, face red and hair wild. “You get your ass off my property!”

“Aww, Mama, don't be like that!” Merle yells, nearly falling over before righting himself. “Just cause you're gettin' did by Captain Smith don't mean all the injuns gotta suffer!”

“You get over here and say that to me!” Eleanor screams, lunging forward, only stopped by Hershel's arm across her chest.

“Ellie, come on inside, let Daryl handle this—“

Daryl feels Beth step up closer to him and touch his arm, and as if their bodies are connected Merle's eyes lock on Beth and Daryl feels his heart plummet to the floor.

“Hey chickadee!” Merle hollers, stumbling forward again. “My, you lookin' fine—“

Daryl feels red hot anger lick up his spine, and he steps forward too, shoving Beth behind himself.

“Don't fucking look at her,” he growls.

“You doin' plenty of looking for both of us, li'l bro,” Merle says, his voice, mercifully, dropping below what Eleanor and Hershel would be able to hear from the porch. By now he's within spitting distance, eyes darting between Daryl and where Beth is peeking out from behind him. “Bet her cunny's sweet as apple pie, to get you goin'. You know what a faggot li'l Darylina was before youse came along?”

Eleanor is yelling something about the cops, but Daryl hardly hears, all his energy turned towards Merle's low voice and Beth's small body behind him.

“Didn't fuckin' believe it, seein' him walking around with wood like an oak tree, but ya did it, yessiree. Ready to admit you ain't nothin' special, Darylina? Ya ain't too good for me, ya ain't no mama's boy, ya ain't no _saint_ , just a dirty redneck asshole. And it's all you'll ever be, huh? No better than Merle, no better than Pop–“

“Daryl–” Beth begins.

“–and _damn_ would the old man be proud to see you now—“

Daryl hardly hears them, the three voices shouting his name; hardly feels Beth's fingers claw into his bicep before he rips away, arm swinging, fist flying to lay a clumsy hit against Merle's cheek.

Silence rings as Merle stumbles back, just catching himself before tumbling to the ground.

Daryl's fists clench and unclench as Merle stands, clutching his cheek and looking at Daryl with incredulity.

“I am too good for you, Merle,” Daryl says, under his breath but full to bursting with fury. “Might not be better than Dad, but I'm sure as _fuck_ better'n you. You get the fuck outta here 'fore I beat your ass—“

Daryl is cognizant only of Beth's scream before Merle's right hook hits his jaw and his shoulder hits his stomach, driving him into the ground.

Daryl's head strikes the dirt with a sharp pain and a bounce that radiates like a tremor through his body. He doesn't have time to process it, though, as he lunges to the side, narrowly avoiding Merle's fist before driving a knee into Merle’s ribs and wrestling him sideways and off himself.

Daryl stumbles to his feet, bringing his fists up just as Merle lunges for him, getting a cuff to Daryl's shoulder before Daryl slams his jaw again and drives forward, delivering punch after punch. With Eleanor shrieking and Hershel shouting and Merle's harsh grunts ringing in his ears Daryl can't help the euphoria that screams through his skull as his fists connect with skin and bone. Merle's face, his father's face, Daryl's own flash through the spurts of dirt and blood until Merle grabs his shirt with a resounding _RIP_ and Daryl's fist connects with his temple and Merle drops like a boulder.

Daryl stumbles backwards, chest heaving as he looks at his brother on the ground—his brother, he thinks as his pants turn into gasps, crumpled like a rag-doll, covered in sweat and blood and dirt and not an ounce of fat, old bruises standing as livid on his skin as the new ones. Daryl feels acutely the cracked skin of his knuckles and the blood ringing in his own head as he stands, fists clenched and unclenched, his big bad brother nearly motionless at his feet—

“Daryl.”

Daryl turns at the sound of his mother's voice, meeting her eyes where she stands on the stairs of the porch. Hershel stands a step above her, a restraining hand on her shoulder as he too stares at Daryl, something like grimness in his eyes. Eleanor's own are as wide as saucers as she stares at her younger son, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“What?” Daryl snaps. “You think I was gonna let him get the jump on me—“

“Daryl, it's...” Daryl turns, heart thumping. Beth is standing several feet away, looking almost calm in her shock. He's about to yell at her too, ask what the fuck he was supposed to do—

But there's something else in her eyes. Something like sadness, something like fear, something like dawning understanding.

Eleanor is still shaking on the porch.

“You didn't tell me—“

“Your back,” Beth says.

Daryl blinks, and looks down.

His shirt must have ripped straight down the back, for it's hanging loose and tattered in front of him, like some mockery of a bib. He can feel it now, the night breeze against the bare skin of his shoulder-blades, and the bite of the wind on his cooling sweat stabs like knives.

He looks up when a body moves past him, sees Hershel in his undershirt going to Merle.

And Beth is standing in front of him, her father's outer shirt in her hands.

Daryl doesn't meet her eyes when he takes it, but he does once it's on.

He doesn't know what she's saying, deep in those doe eyes, but he looks at them. Looks, as the screen door slams shut behind his mother, going inside; looks as Merle moans and Hershel speaks softly behind them. Looks as his own head spins, vision going blurry, legs swaying until Beth grabs his arm and shouts for her father.

He doesn’t look at her as she helps him inside, but he feels her.

Every inch of her body, shoulder wedged under his arm, hand on his chest, ribs swelling and shrinking against his as she gasps for breath beneath his weight—

He feels her.

And that's what he follows.

* * *

His knuckles are bruised and bloodied but he didn't let Hershel bandage them, even to soothe the sting of the iodine. Doesn't let Hershel do much of anything with him; accepts the antiseptic and the diagnosis of a concussion before shooing him away, off to deal with Merle, to comfort Daryl's discomfited mother. Daryl can handle himself. Daryl is fine.

He sits on the bed in a spare bedroom, shredded hands loose in his lap as he stares listlessly out the window. He can't see much from this angle—a few panes of sky, stars distorted and blurred by the glass, almost obliterated by the clouds rolling in from the east.

Some rain would do them good, Daryl thinks, Hershel in particular, with his crops. But it would help all of them in the end. Wash things away. Wash them clean.

Ma was upstairs behind her closed door long before Beth helped Daryl stumble inside. They waited by the bannister for Hershel to finish with Merle so he could help Daryl up the stairs and Daryl didn't bother to tell her he could stand on his own. His head felt too fuzzy, the warmth of her pressed all along his side too good. Her hand had rested on his sternum and then his stomach, rubbing absent-minded, soothing circles until he began to shiver. He didn't meet her eyes when she looked at him but he felt the look and she must have felt the shame as she stopped her movements and pressed in harder, holding him together, holding him in place, pushing through his abdomen towards the arm around his back as if she could meet herself in the middle, tangle with his organs like she was made from his marrow too. He closed his eyes, leaning half on her, half on the bannister, and let himself forget himself—pressed his face into her hair, breathing in deep until she began to shake. He was turned away by the time Hershel arrived, Beth standing solid—but for some moments they had swayed together like leaves in the breeze, keeping each other from flying apart.

She vanished once they got him up the stairs and into a small room, bare but for the bed and a tall stack of boxes in the corner. Hershel didn't say anything as he looked him over, beyond reassuring him that Merle was fine, giving his own prognosis. He was every inch the professional, not the soon-to-be father smacked in the face with what the previous father had done.

So now Daryl looks at the sky and thinks of his hands. He thinks they should shake. They don't, but everything else does, shivers running up and down his spine like plunging rivers, heels tapping silently on the carpet.

His hands and his face are all that don't move; his eyelids feel welded open as he looks at that sky, thinks of vanishing into it.

He's so trapped in his own body that he doesn't hear the door open; doesn't realize he isn't alone until she's already sinking onto the bed, far enough away that only the shake of the mattress alerts him to her presence. He only needs a glance to tell who it is; in truth, he doesn't need that. It's enough to hear how silently she settles beside him; it's enough to feel the tremble her movements make in the air, soft and warm like a summer breeze.

They sit silently together for a long time, waiting out the anger that licks at his numbness when he tries to rage at why she's here—to placate him, to turn him from further violence. He will fight if Merle wants to—but there's nothing for him to start, not tonight, especially with her sitting so softly beside him. She should know that. She should know that by now.

“You look like my dad.”

Her tone sounds so much like she is speaking to herself that it takes him a full minute to comprehend the words; and even then, he feels his brows pull together in confusion.

“I walked in on him changing his shirt when I was little,” Beth says. Daryl doesn't look at her, and he doesn't think she's looking at him—they face the sky together. “He was sitting on his bed with his back to the door. Bent over a little. He had just come in from working the horses and I wanted him to make lunch.” There's a rustle; Daryl thinks she's scratching her cheek. “I didn't know what I was seeing, not for a long time; just that he didn't want me to see it.”

Daryl doesn't have to ask what she saw. The memory of her words, her tone, are enough.

 _Your back_.

She had said it so matter-of-factly, like it was a secret they already shared. Like she was reminding him of a conversation they had had over and over.

_Hadn't they, though? Hadn't they?_

“We've talked about it, a few times,” Beth says. “Not very much. Just that his daddy hurt him, and that's part of how. Said it destroyed him for a long time, but that he'd never do that to me, or Maggie.”

Daryl's hands twitch in his lap, thinks about how every time he clutches a baseball bat, every time he holds a tire iron or a knife or a rifle, he pictures his father's face. Not as he always was—twisted, mean, sunken in on himself with jagged rage. He sees him in a last rictus of terror—all that meanness stripped bare, all defenses gone; alone with himself and the knowledge that his son, the body of his body, will be the one to kill him.

Will Dixon is long gone, and Daryl still sees him at the end of his blade.

“He hit Shawn once.”

It takes Daryl a few moments of confusion— _Pop never knew anyone named Shawn_ —for what Beth is saying to sink in. And even then, he doesn't understand it. He looks at her.

She's wearing a worn-out t-shirt much like the one he's borrowing from Hershel, soft-looking, hanging in pleats that hide her body, save the tented nipples his eyes find in the fabric. Sleep shorts peek out beneath the hem of her shirt. Her long legs are crossed at the ankles, her toes that painted pink. Her face is still turned toward the window, eyes lost in memory, but he knows she knows he is looking.

“What?”

“He hit Shawn.” Beth looks at him and her eyes are shining. She is not close to tears, but he can see her remembering them. “He was around 11, I think. Maybe a little older. It was one of Daddy's bad days. Usually he could hold himself together when Mama was home, but money was hard and she was working double shifts. He locked himself in his room all day, and even though I was young I knew he was drinking and drinking.” Beth looks at her hands—slim, pink, soft—twined in her lap. If Daryl were another man he might take hold of them. “He didn't come out until it was almost dinner time. Maggie and me were too young to understand what was going on, but Shawn was beginning to. He'd sass off at Daddy, complain about having to make us lunch and do chores that weren't his.” Beth leans into Daryl a little—barely a whisper of movement, but she does—and Daryl lets her. Doesn't comment, doesn't move away. Gives her the strength to finish her story. “Usually Daddy'd just yell, or go away. But it was different this time. Maggie and I knew it but Shawn wouldn't stop. Then all of a sudden Daddy was grabbing him and pushing him over the couch and grabbing a belt off the floor... and...”

Beth stumbles to a stop, biting her lip as silent tears begin to slip down her cheeks. Daryl watches them dip into the crease of her mouth, drip off her chin, spot her nightshirt. She continues as if she doesn't notice them; if not for the thickness of her voice, he would think she doesn't know they are there.

“After, he just left. Didn't say anything, or look at any of us. Just dropped the belt and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and walked out the door. And I was screaming and screaming and Maggie was trying to calm me down and Shawn was on the floor and he wasn't moving and...” Beth seems to notice the tears on her face, for she sniffs in suddenly, scrubs at her cheeks. She leaves them shiny and pink. “Maggie got me to go to my room so she could take care of Shawn. Then they came in and we all held each other till Mama came home.”

Daryl never hears crickets when he's in his apartment. Never hears much of anything; he's long become desensitized to passing sirens and drunks shouting on the street. Those noises are inconsequential; they are not the menacing creak of floorboards, the heavy breaths of a stumbling drunk. He's never had need to notice the background before.

Here the crickets are deafening. They chirp as if they are in the room with them, coating the walls, crawling over their clothes and bare limbs. He almost sees one, out of the corner of his eye, prepared to leap.

He wants to look out the window, turn away from this, from her, but he can't. She's crying in earnest now—almost silently, save her sniffles, but in earnest, shoulders shaking as she struggles for breath.

Once more he itches to touch her. To swing his arm from his side and settle it around her shoulders, draw her close, let her rest her head and her worries against him. It's what she would do for him, he knows; gather his body in her hands and his head in her lap, stroke his hair until sleep comes. He sees it as clearly as if it has happened before; feels the plushness of her thighs against his cheek, her stomach rising and falling against his scalp with her breath. He hears the crickets and the imagined whisper of fingers and he doesn't know which is louder.

But he still doesn't know what to do with the idea of touch as a comfort, and after all he's done to her, he doesn't know if she would welcome it anyway. He clenches his hands between his legs instead, balled into fists and held in place by his thighs, kept still and unable to touch her cheek.

But she's still crying. And he's alone with her. And it burns the feeling of tear-tracks into his own skin to see that wetness on her face.

“Did you tell your mom? What happened?”

“Daddy did,” Beth says after a moment, breathing in deeply before she begins. “That's where he went when he left. Walked all five miles to where she worked at the convenience store.” Beth shifts in her seat, sniffing loudly. “I didn't know what was going on, none of it. But Mama told me some when she was in the hospital. I didn't want to hear it. Not then, not when there were so many other things I wanted to...”

Beth trails off, squeezing her eyes shut. Her hands are flat on the mattress now, wrapped around the edge, white knuckled in their grip, and Daryl closes his own eyes when he slips his hand over hers. He doesn't hold it, not quite, nor does he lean into her; but when he opens his eyes he meets her eyes and they are shining with something like gratitude.

“He stayed with Otis for a few weeks,” Beth says quietly. “We didn't hear from him, but I know Mama talked to him; she always went on the phone after we fell asleep. Every night, for hours, sometimes. I never heard what she said but I could hear her talking through the wall.” Beth swallows. “We were all so confused. We didn't know why Daddy did it, but we also didn't know why he was gone. And we didn't want him to be. After a week Shawn asked Mama when he was coming back and she started crying.” Beth pulls her thumb out from beneath Daryl's hand, hooks it over his finger. Strokes at his knuckle until the hairs on his arm stand up. “We met him again for the first time at an ice cream parlor in town. He didn't cry there, but we could tell he had been. That scared us a lot. He talked to Shawn alone for a while. He came home the next day and he hasn't touched a drop of alcohol since.”

Beth's gaze feels too heavy on his skin, far too heavy, and he finally gets himself to look out the window again, pull his hand off hers and back into his lap. Beth lets him—but she also scoots closer, close enough that he can feel the emotion trembling through the arm pressed to his, could hear her softest whisper. She leans her cheek on his shoulder, and he closes his eyes.

“He came back, Daryl,” Beth says. “He could have run away, or blamed us, or done it again. But he came back. He didn't have to, but he did.” Daryl feels the bunching in her muscles, and knows what she's about to do; but he doesn't tense against it. Just breathes out a shaky sigh as she raises an arm behind him, traces hesitant fingers across his back. His entire body is trembling but she doesn't stop—her touch firms, following the lines she glimpsed, others she imagines, still more she knows lie deep beneath the surface. He feels them rising, as she drifts across them; rising in the hope, maybe, of fading away.

“I love my daddy more than almost anything, Daryl,” Beth says. “And not just cause he's my dad, like everyone says you should. I love him cause he earned it.”

Daryl's head bows nearly to his chest as Beth's hand moves slowly across the planes of his shoulders, pressing more firmly until he feels the pressure down to his bunched muscles. She hits a sensitive spot and even under her gentle touch he shudders.

He knows she's looking at him. But somehow, that doesn't bother him. He lets her look. He lets her touch. He would let her do almost anything, in this moment.

She’s earned that, too.

After a while her touch lightens again, and she shifts her weight so she's no longer leaning against him, letting her arm drop back to her side with a sigh.

“You leaving?” he asks.

He feels her surprise at his question, but he waits to look at her; when he does turn his head, she has a shaky smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she searches his face—looking for his intent, as if he had any to begin with. As if he knows anything about himself anymore. As if he ever did.

“Yeah,” she says. “It's late. I have school tomorrow, you know.”

Daryl snorts softly. “Yeah. I know.”

“And you need to heal,” she says.

“Can do that with you here.”

Both sides of her face are smiling now. The blue of her eyes seems brighter than ever, set against the bloodshot whites, and her tear-tracks glimmer like beams of starlight.

“Try it on your own first,” she says. She tips her head and a lock of hair falls into her face; Daryl's mouth twitches, but he doesn't push it back. He barely doesn't. “You sleep well, Daryl Dixon.”

Daryl realizes how much he had been leaning into her when he almost loses his balance as she stands; only a hand shooting to the mattress prevents him from pitching over. He holds himself there and watches as she wiggles a little, loosening her muscles and letting her hiked up shorts fall back into place on her long legs. He keeps his eyes on her as she walks to the door, barely five steps away in the small room.

She pauses with her hand on the doorknob, looks back at him. He sees the same sadness in her expression as he did earlier by the car. Maybe a little fear. Maybe a little pleading. Maybe a little hope.

“This is what I meant, at the diner,” Beth says. “Being with you, it's just... it's this. This is what I meant.” She swallows, shifting on her feet, and Daryl suddenly remembers that _she_ is the one 20 years younger, not the other way around. “The rest would be nice, but... I just want someone to be honest with. I wanna be honest with you. Is that ok?”

Daryl looks at her. At her slim torso, slim body. Her cheeks and eyes and nose still red from crying, a dribble of moisture emerging from one nostril. The oversized shirt that nearly covers her shorts, the shorts that barely cover her legs, the little painted toes and the hands fiddling with the hem of her shirt as she waits for his answer.

It's his choice now. She's already made hers.

“Yeah, Beth. Yeah. Yeah.”

“Ok,” she says. “Ok. Goodnight, Daryl.”

“Goodnight, Beth.”

Goodnight.

* * *

Daryl waits until he's reasonably sure the house is asleep before slipping out to the driveway and into his truck and driving away.

He's a little dizzy, but it doesn't affect him more than a light buzz would, and there aren't enough cars on the road at this hour to bother him. He feels a twinge of guilt at leaving before speaking to his mother, at leaving Merle there for them to deal with. But he knows what Merle's like when he comes down from a high, and he suspects Hershel could handle him no matter how he reacts in the morning. And he knows Beth could.

He considers heading home, or even to the garage—his shift doesn't begin until 10am, but there's always work to do, and with his key to the office he could doze on the couch—but he doesn't. He takes the wheel and he turns it north.

He starts shivering a little with both windows open, but he doesn't roll them up, nor does he slow; he drives with the wind swirling around his head like a thousand little thoughts battering his skull, begging to be let in—but he doesn't let them. He hears their whispers, and he turns them away. And maybe it's the concussion, maybe it's the lingering scent of Beth in his nostrils, but for the first time in years he has no desire for his hands to lie anything but still.

He pulls off the highway just as the first rays of sunlight begin to tip the trees; he drives until he comes to a game path and turns onto that too. He continues down the bumpy road until it ends at a picnic site at the edge of a cliff and he turns the car so it faces away from the sun and exits the cab and walks to the the bed where he lowers the tailgate to jump up on the edge, bracing himself against his spinning head.

He watches the horizon for a while. Doesn't look directly into the sun, but to the edges of it; lets his corneas soak up their light, feel the rays tickle his eyelashes. He wishes idly that he had a beer, but it doesn't bother him much; after a few minutes he goes back to the cab to snag a cigarette before returning to the bed and lighting up, squinting as the lighter's flame flickers and fades against that of the sun.

As he's lighting up his knuckles catch his eyes. The scabs are ugly and black, but not inflamed—Hershel did his job well, and so did Merle, for not fighting back longer.

He didn't think about it at the time but now the memory of his hand on top of Beth's filters into his consciousness, and he lets the smoke trickle slowly out of his nose as he pulls one foot onto the truck bed, resting his forearm against it, turning his wrist this way and that as the sun shines through his fingers.

He doesn't like his hands. He doesn't like their uneven surface or their bumpy ridges, the way he can't quite get his right pinky to lie flat, not after Pop wrenched it out of its socket when he was 12. He doesn't like how large they are, how clumsy against anything that isn't metal, especially anything belonging to another person. He doesn't like the way they look at the ends of his arms, dangling like beached jellyfish. He doesn't like the way they look wrapped around his cock, or cupping his balls, or sliding down the planes of his stomach as he imagines smaller hands in their place. His hands are scarred and broken and they tell every inch of the hell he's survived.

But he never _liked_ them. Not until Beth pressed them against her skin. Not until, in those moments by himself in blinding pleasure, he forgets where they come from. The moments when he just exists. When he is free.  His hands have saved his life in bar-fights, have earned him a living, have carted game through the woods, have wielded a crossbow. He's survived on these hands his father gave him. Like Carol said, just the day before. He survived.

He remembers his pop's hand, clutching his wrist as he dragged him through the woods on one of his first hunting trips. How different their hands looked at that time: his father's, more like Daryl's are now; bigger, hairier, maybe, but like his.

Daryl's were small. Smooth. Innocent. Newborn.

Like Beth's.

But she isn't newborn. No matter her age, no matter her youth, no matter her naivete in some things: She is not newborn. Not even close.

He hates the way his hands looked on her skin. So much rougher than her, so much meaner than her. Not meant to find their way to her body. Not made for her, just like none of him is made for anyone.

But when he touched her...

When he touched her, she arched into it. She bit her lip and she moaned. She pressed his calluses and his scars harder against her clit and something in them made her come. Made her feel good. Made her happy, like being around her makes him happy. Like he feels when she smiles at him, or tilts her head like a bird, or furrows her brow when he starts speaking a language she doesn't understand. But she wants to learn it. She wants to learn him. He isn't made for her; but something in her seems to think he could be.

He doesn't deserve to touch Beth. Not like that. Not yet, at least.

But he's survived. He's done that part. Just like his ma did; survived years of hell to get to this point, where she is free to cook and clean and be the mother she never could be before because there was no space for mothering when she wasn't guaranteed to survive until tomorrow. She can live, now, because she earned it.

And he is his mother's son.

Daryl looks at himself, haloed by light. He thinks of his knuckles connecting with Merle's cheek. He thinks of his hand on top of Beth's. He thinks of Hershel, all those years ago, crouching before his son at an ice cream parlor. Loosening his fists. Dropping the belt. Becoming the man his family deserves.

Daryl can remake these hands, maybe. He can break his pop's joints one by one, untangling them from his own ligaments until his survival is made of more than clenched knuckles and scarred fists. Until survival becomes something different from his old man's.

Until survival isn't even the point anymore.

 _I get it, Beth,_ he thinks. _I get it now._

_This could be something. Something good. Don't we deserve that?_


	17. Make Me Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's times like these that even Daryl needs a friend to help sort through the pieces.

Daryl falls asleep in the bed of the truck and by the time he makes it to work it's almost noon. Aaron gives him a quizzical look when he goes into the office to pick up his schedule, but when Daryl shrugs Aaron raises his eyebrows and leaves it be. He's been working enough overtime that coming in two hours late isn't worth a reprimand; and besides, Aaron's known Daryl long enough to know that pushing when Daryl doesn't want to be pushed won't get either of them anywhere.

Daryl settles into the day with a level of contentment he hasn't felt in a long time. For the first time since that morning with Beth in his bed, he doesn't force his brain into every nook and cranny of the engine he's fixing, doesn't rake the mechanics with razor eyes, doesn't narrow his focus to the slick of grease and nothing more. He relaxes, and opens his instincts, and lets his mind wander. He thinks about checking in with Hershel, with Ma, with Beth; see how Merle's doing, see if any of them slept, if they're angry with him for sneaking away in the night. He thinks about the fight the night before, how perversely good it felt to take his aggressions out on a warm body. He thinks about the last human being he touched, before Merle. He thinks about touching her since—her hand, her shoulder on his shoulder, her hand on his back. He adjusts himself where his cock digs into his jeans, but otherwise lets the thoughts be.

It makes something in his chest lift a little, to know he can do that. That maybe the way he fell asleep this morning at dawn—watching his hands run over his cock and balls in the dark, waiting for his flesh to stiffen and fill, not closing his eyes as he usually does—maybe that’s changed something. Maybe shame doesn’t have to be as big a part of this as it is. Maybe he can laugh, at the cliche of it—daddy’s girl running to the man with rough hands and hard eyes to help her find whatever she’s looking for. A man with violence in his head and a ghost on his back lusting over a girl wouldn’t know sin if it walked up and shook her hand. Introduced itself. Took her on the ferris wheel, kissed her beneath the stars. Drifted its hand up her thighs until she crawled into its lap and trembled. Even then, she'd look at it with her big wide eyes, pupils swelling in lust and skin growing thick, and beg Sin to tell her its secrets.

He doesn't think that's innocence, exactly; he knows it isn't. Something tells him there isn't a purely _innocent_ bone in Beth's whole body. Not with the way she writhed against him. Not with how she looked at him afterwards, with nervousness, maybe, hesitance, but not an ounce of fear. 

Not with how she looks at him always—eyes older than his for all their youth, shining with knowledge and understanding. Not with those belting scars on her dead brother's back. Not with how she holds Daryl up like the last tower in a storm, bent by the gale but not broken, not until the wind has blown itself out.

No, Beth Greene is a lot of things, but innocent is not one of them. 

She isn't naïve either. Naïve about some things, maybe, but so is he, so is everyone. She knows the things that matter. She knows the tracks his scars make, above the skin and below. She knows how his fears tangle between them, how he trembles when she dips her fingers into the throng, begins to tug them out. She knows how they would lie beside her own fears, and she knows they'd fit together like the pieces of a puzzle.

He remembers one of the CDs his ma used to play when Pop was out. Will hated her taste in music, especially her show-tunes; thought they were sissy, ridiculous, a waste of the pennies she paid to the bootleggers on the street.

She liked the romantic ones. She always did, and Daryl secretly did too, although he'd never admit it, especially not where Merle could hear. There was one song she loved to the point of hate; that she'd listen to with tears streaming down her cheeks, bruises rising on her skin, daffodils blooming just beyond reach outside the kitchen window. She usually skipped through the dialogue inserts at the beginning, got straight to the chorus; but when she passed out, Daryl would wind back, play the beginning over and over at the lowest volume, radio pressed to his ear, eyes drifting closed:

_You've got so many reasons for not being with someone.  
But you haven't got one good reason for being alone._

Him and Beth. Beth and him. Compatible fears. Compatible darkness. Compatible reasons for being alone, but longing for all else anyway.

And Daryl's running out of reasons.

* * *

He doesn't think Aaron hears him properly the first time he asks, so he repeats himself, standing in the doorway and covered in engine grease, the clock on the wall set to hit 6pm. He says the words as clearly as he can, but still Aaron blinks in confusion. Daryl raises his eyebrows and steps further into the room, speaking slowly.

“Do. You want. To get a drink.”

Aaron's still staring at him and Daryl's about to throw up his hands and give up on the whole thing when Aaron shakes himself from his stupor, slumping a little as he looks over Daryl in confusion.

“Any... special reason?”

Daryl shrugs as unconcernedly as he can, playing down his fluttering heart.

“Nah. Just want a drink. You're always asking me, so what's the problem?”

“Cause I never thought you'd say yes,” Aaron says bluntly. He tilts his head, frowning. “You aren't dying or anything, are you?”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Jesus, if you don't wanna come—“

“I do, just– ok. Ok! You know what, this is great! Give me five minutes and we can go.”

“Fine,” Daryl grumbles, and leaves the office.

They drive up to the local bar exactly ten minutes later, passing a laughing couple on the way in. it's much more Aaron's type of establishment than Daryl's: The bar is polished and clean—it might even be real wood—and the customers don't look like they've spent nights dozing in puddles of other people's piss. It's almost full with other people coming by after work, but they're able to snag a pair of seats at the bar.

Aaron orders a beer. Daryl orders whiskey. He downs the shot, and asks for another. Once he's had two he angles himself towards Aaron, but still finds he has nothing to say.

Aaron has been staring at him with raised eyebrows ever since the first shot, beer sitting forgotten on the bar. They're silent for a few beats before Daryl grunts, asks the bartender for another whiskey.

He doesn't down this one, but sits hunched over it, staring into the amber liquid as he swirls it higher and higher up the edges of the glass. The first two shots buzz contentedly in his stomach and head, and he feels the ever-present knot in his chest begin to loosen a little.

“So,” Aaron says, even his endless patience running short. “How was Hershel's?”

Daryl glances at him. He knows the bruises from the night before stand out clearly on his face; but he also knows Aaron. He starts with the easy stuff first. Eases in. Waits for Daryl to come to him.

Daryl is thankful for it, even if it doesn't help much in this situation.

He doesn't know what to say so he doesn't say anything. Just swirls his whiskey and licks the first two shots off his teeth.

“Eric ok?” Daryl finally asks, ignoring Aaron's own question. He doesn't look at Aaron as he says it, but he feels his cheeks heating under the man's scrutiny. He knows Aaron's brain is going 0 to 60 at this point, trying to figure out why he's here.

_He'd never guess_ , Daryl thinks with a twitch of his mouth.  _He'd never guess in a million years._

“He's fine,” Aaron says slowly. “Going a little crazy over the party this Friday. You're still coming to that?”

Daryl grunts an affirmative, chewing on the corner of his mouth.

“I'm glad,” Aaron says. “Anyway, he's really into the idea of doing the whole thing through donation. Setting it up as a “Taste of Georgia” thing.”

Daryl snorts. “How's that going?”

“Not so great,” Aaron says wryly. He's quiet for a moment, then says, “Your mom and Hershel are still welcome to come.”

Daryl snorts again, glancing at Aaron out of the corner of his eye. “You know that won't end well. 'Sides, shouldn't be around booze anyway.”

“True.” Aaron sips at his beer, keeping his face turned slightly away from Daryl, as if trying to appear less threatening. “They seem happy together?”

“Yeah,” Daryl answers automatically. Then he pauses. Thinks. Says, “Yeah. They do.” He sips his whiskey, feeling it loosen his tongue, make it lighter. “Hershel's a good guy,” he says. “Real good.”

“What led you to that conclusion?”

_He came back. He didn't have to, but he did._

Daryl doesn't answer; just runs his fingertip along the rim of his glass, watches the condensation slide down the outside. Thinks about sweat sliding down Beth's collarbone at the Moonshiner; standing out in beads on his brother's strung out face. Thinks about cum on his fingers and rain in his hair. Blood beneath his nails. He thinks about a lot of things.

“I need you to talk me out of something.”

He doesn't look at Aaron as he fishes his phone from his pocket. The whiskey keeps his fingers steady as he flips through the menus. When he lands on the correct page he pauses, staring at it, fighting with himself, knowing there's no coming back from this—

He hands the phone over and crosses his arms on the bar top, staring down into his drink. The fumes rise up and tickle his nose and he concentrates on holding the sneeze in instead of thinking about what Aaron is looking at.

He's so lost in himself he almost jumps when Aaron speaks.

“She's young,” Aaron says.

Daryl snorts, glancing at his friend where he sits looking at Beth's contact page, the picture of her smiling in the kitchen, sun in her hair.

“Yeah. She's young.”

“How young?”

“Seventeen,” Daryl says. His heart gives a pained thunk at the relief in Aaron's face. “Was sixteen when I met her.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Few months.”

“And... what exactly do you need me to talk you out of?”

Daryl glances at his friend, irritated at having to spell it out even as he's grateful to Aaron for not assuming.

“I wanna be with her,” he says; and once he starts the words he's kept inside himself for so long can't stop themselves from spilling out. “I like her, I... she ain't like no one else I've ever met. She don't judge me, she don't... our lives ain't the same at all but we're the same. She's the same as me. She's pretty and smart and I ain't shit, but... we're the same.” Daryl swallows, wanting to down his drink but not sure his clenched throat wouldn't cough it all back up. “I can't be with her like I want,” he says, forcing himself to look at Aaron. Forcing himself to face it. “I know I can't,” he says. “But I dunno how not to be anymore.”

He doesn't think Aaron's ever looked at him as carefully as he's looking at him now; like he's dancing around a live wire in a pool of eels, grasping at their tails as they slip through his fingers.

“If she's 17,” Aaron says slowly, “then she'll be 18 soon. Her parents might not be as against it if–“

Daryl squeezes his eyes shut, fighting to press down his laughter. “They'd be against it.”

“Ok.” Aaron looks at the phone, tilting it this way and that. “Does she want to be with you?”

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “Yeah. She does.”

“She told you?”

“Yeah.” Daryl does take a drink now; not all of it, just a sip, but even that little bit helps to keep his hands from shaking. He returns the glass to the table, cupping it between his palms. “I cussed her out the first time. Said awful shit. But last night, she...” Daryl swallows, clenching his jaw. “She tries so hard,” he says. “Ain't never seen no one try like her.”

“Tries what?”

“Everything,” Daryl says softly. “She's so sad, she... I dunno everything about what's happened to her. Don't know most of it, probably. But she's been through shit. Not like... not like me, but she has. And she's so fucking brave, she...” Daryl trails off, feeling tears building in his throat. At the memory of her: on the porch, shouting into his face; in the diner, stoic and unbending; in his apartment, in his bed, leading his lips to hers. Taking him somewhere. Taking him with her. “I think I make her happy,” he says. “She's sad, but when she looks at me, she... I think I do. Never done that for no one before.”

“You make people happy, Daryl,” Aaron says softly.

Daryl shrugs, pushing his lips together. “Whatever,” he mutters. He looks at Aaron, at his open face, his relaxed hands and gentle back. He thinks about Beth sitting in Aaron's place and he wonders what he would say. “We ain't right for each other,” he says, “But I ain't right without her either. And I dunno which is worse.”

“Is friendship an option?”

_You are family, Daryl. No matter what happens between me and your mother, between you and any of us, you are family._

Daryl's lip twitches into a smirk, and he shakes his head. “More than that already,” he says. “Don't have no choice in it.”

“Of course you have a choice, you—“

“We don't,” Daryl says. It comes out much quieter than he expects it to. “No matter what, we gotta be something. And I dunno if I can be something without everything. I tried, and it... I ain't man enough for that. I ain't strong enough.”

“You _are_ strong enough,” Aaron says gently. “You can be with her if you want to be. You deserve the things you want.”

Daryl squeezes his eyes shut. “You don't get it.”

“Then explain it to me,” Aaron says.

Daryl tries to look at him but his eyes catch on the phone. It sits forgotten in Aaron's hand, tilted towards Daryl. Her picture is warped and distorted by the angle he's seeing it from, but Daryl finds himself caught in staring at her. He knows Aaron is looking at him but he can't look away from the phone, from her face, from her smile. From her, in the only way she belongs to him: an image, trapped in a flickering pattern of lights.

“That's Hershel Greene's daughter,” he says.

He looks away before he's forced to watch Aaron's reaction, downing his whiskey and setting it aside, staring at his hands. He begins picking at a scab on his knuckle and winces when it begins to bleed.

“Oh,” Aaron finally says. “Well. That complicates things.”

Daryl snorts, smearing the blood across his skin. “Fuck yeah it does.”

“That's really... wow.”

“I didn't plan it or nothing,” Daryl mutters.

“I know, I...” Aaron trails off, and Daryl risks a glance at him. He's sitting back on his stool now, staring openly at Daryl, his surprise overwhelming his forbearance. “Your mom and Hershel don't know, right?”

“Of course not,” Daryl growls. “And they ain't gonna. Got enough to worry about.”

“But you still want to do this.”

“I told you. You're gonna tell me not to.”

“Daryl, I...” Aaron trails off, then lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Daryl, you know I can't do that.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Cause if you came to me with this, if you're admitting it out loud... you've already decided. Your mind was made up before we even got here.”

Daryl opens his mouth to argue, then slides it closed. He blinks at Aaron, then sighs out roughly. “Fuck,” he says.

“Fuck indeed.” Aaron is sitting forward again, smiling at him now. “Daryl, listen... I know this might be wildly irresponsible, and I've probably been reading too many romance novels, but... I think you should go for it. I think you should do it.”

Daryl blinks. “Are you kidding me?”

“No.” Aaron sits back a little, holding his beer loosely. “What's the worst that could happen?”

“Hershel finds out I'm sticking it to his daughter and he shoots me and Ma in the ass.”

Aaron's face falls a little. “Well. There's that.” He taps his finger on his beer, then leans forward as if he's about to tell a secret. “Listen,” he says, “Why don't you invite her to mine and Eric's anniversary party?” Daryl opens his mouth to interrupt, but Aaron speaks over him. “Neither of you will know anyone there. Just me and Eric. It's a chance to feel like a real couple, instead of starting your relationship sneaking around all the time.”

Daryl feels worms squirming in the pit of his stomach; but he doesn't know if they come from excitement or fear.

“I dunno,” he says. “I never done this boyfriend stuff before.”

“You can learn.”

“I ain't good for her.”

“You are, Daryl.”

“She's my fucking _sister_.”

“ _Not yet_.” Aaron leans even farther forward and takes hold of Daryl's forearm, forcing him to look at him. “You still have a while until the wedding,” Aaron says. “There's nothing official to say you're related. Not until then, and even then... it's just a label. Labels don't define how you feel about people.” Aaron squeezes Daryl's arm. “You have space to figure things out now, and when the day comes... maybe it won't work. Maybe you won't have to worry about it.”

Daryl frowns and starts to pull away. Aaron follows, gripping even tighter.

“But Daryl,” he says, “Daryl. Maybe it _will_.”

They sit like that, silently, for near a minute—Aaron leaning almost into Daryl's face, his hand a claw on Daryl's arm. Eventually Daryl glances away and sees the curious looks they're getting; he clears his throat, and Aaron sits back, sighing and running a hand through his hair.

“Sorry,” he says.

“S'fine.” Daryl looks down at his empty whiskey glass, suddenly wishing for another, and another and another until he can black out and wake in some parallel universe. Some universe where his Ma isn't marrying Hershel, where Daryl himself is 20 years younger, where he has an education and a good job and clean hair and looks like the kind of man a father wants his daughter coming home with...

But that wouldn't work, Daryl realizes. It wouldn't work. They might look good, they might be together—but they wouldn't be them. Their fears, their darkness... it wouldn't be there to push the good parts into place.

No matter the difficulties, no matter the moralities, no matter the dangers—he wouldn't give up being her family for anything.

“Call her,” Aaron says.

Daryl looks up, and realizes he'd been staring at his phone where Aaron had laid it on the table.

“What?”

“Call her now.” Aaron picks up the phone and hands it to Daryl, pressing it firmly into his hand. “Invite her now. Before you talk yourself out of it.”

Daryl stares at the phone, stares at her face... and sighs roughly, shaking his head. “You know me too well, man,” Daryl mutters.

Aaron grins, picking up his beer and taking a swig. “Only paid your bills for the past few years.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Daryl looks down at the phone, fiddles with the buttons. He looks up, sees Aaron looking at him expectantly. “What, here?”

“Why not?”

“I don't...” Daryl opens and closes his mouth, searching for words, searching for an excuse... then exhales again. Squeezes his eyes shut. Sits up straight.

He presses 'dial.'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Daryl remembers his ma listening to is "Being Alive" from Company. The Raul Esparza version is astonishing.


	18. I Want the World to See You Be With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl's talk with Aaron has made him more confident in pursuing a relationship with Beth; but is he really ready to commit to what comes next?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mary, as always :)
> 
> If anyone's curious, Beth's dress is a less fancy version of [this](http://www.starrydress.com/images/v/201208/wide-straps-square-neckline-blue-chiffon-pleated-a-line-short-length-hot-homecoming-dress-hd7719813462270430.jpg).

The call is approaching its final ring and Daryl is on his way to hanging up when the line clicks on.

“Hello?” says Beth, her voice labored. She breathes heavily into the phone a few times before Daryl answers.

“Hey,” he says. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I was in the kitchen, I wanted to talk from my room.” He hears the sound of springs bouncing, like she's dropped onto her bed. “What's up?”

“Ain't much.”

“You feeling ok?”

Daryl almost laughs at that. He doesn't think he's felt ok a day in his life.

Except, maybe, when he's with her. Maybe when he's with her.

“Yeah.”

“You aren't dizzy? Lightheaded?”

Daryl thinks he should feel annoyed at her litany of questions—but he doesn't. A small smile climbs up his face as he leans on his elbows on the bar.

“That's just the whiskey.”

There's a beat of silence, and then Beth laughs. “You're drinking? Daryl, it ain't even dark yet!”

Daryl's smile widens. “The sun don’t exactly affect my level of inebriation, Greene.” She giggles, and Daryl's heart thumps painfully. He looks up and sees Aaron watching him; even his kind face is sobering. Daryl clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “It, uh, didn't cause any problems, did it? Me leaving?”

Beth hesitates a second too long in answering, and Daryl closes his eyes.

“It wasn't too bad,” she says. “Your mom was a little upset.”

“Yeah.” Daryl swallows. “Merle?”

“Daddy's got him with some friends who run a rehab place, get him detoxed,” Beth says. Daryl imagines her swinging her feet off the mattress. He realizes that he's never actually seen her bedroom in the light of day—that the image he has, of swishy curtains and band posters and pastel sheets, might not even be real. And yet she's seen his—has slept in his, slept with him—and he feels at such a loss, that she's known him in this way he might never know her.

Might, though. It's become a might. And it could remain one.

“Your mom refused to speak with him,” Beth says after a long pause. “Stayed in her and Daddy's room till he was gone.”

“Yeah, well... they don't get along too well.”

“Really,” Beth says flatly. Daryl smiles again. “It'll all be ok, though,” Beth says. “At least she's seen him, you know? Even if it was a negative experience, it's better than nothing at all, right?”

Daryl knows she doesn't mean it that way—she doesn't have the guile in her heart to make it so—but he can't help but see these words as a dig against him. At how he runs. The way he disappears. And he looks at Aaron and his patient face and he thinks about second chances.

“Listen, uh...” Daryl says. “I got something to ask you. Is that ok?”

The line is silent for a moment; then, “Of course, Daryl.”

“Yeah. Well, uh. My friend's having a party this Friday—his anniversary or whatever—and I thought... I dunno, maybe you'd wanna come?”

Aaron smiles encouragingly at him as he waits for Beth to reply. He holds his breath the entire time.

“Just me?” Beth finally asks.

Daryl lets the air in his lungs out in a rush. “I mean, me too.”

“Yeah, I...” Beth laughs—a little breathlessly, he thinks. “I figured there'd be you.”

“You don't have to, if you don't want—“

“No—Daryl, no,” she says. “No, I want to.”

“Oh. Oh, well, alright.” Daryl knows he's blushing, and he thanks God they're having this conversation over the phone. “It's... it's just at his place. Snacks and drinks and shit, 'round seven. I can pick you up, or...”

“Not from home,” Beth says abruptly. Daryl blinks. “Um, after rehearsal, maybe? At the school?”

“Yeah. Ok.”

“Ok.” He hears the smile in her voice when she speaks again. “Thank you, Daryl.”

“Ain't nothing,” Daryl mutters.

“I'll see you Friday, then?”

“Yeah. Bye–“

“Wait!” Daryl pauses, bringing the phone back to his ear. “I just, uh. I'm glad we're doing this. And that we talked last night. I meant a lot to me, that we can do that. It means a lot.”

Daryl frowns, staring down at the bar. “Ain't nothing,” he says again.

“It's something, Daryl.” For a moment all he hears is her breathing, shallow and a little quick. “Ok. See you Friday, then.”

The line clicks.

Daryl pulls the phone from his ear, staring at it cupped in his hand.

“Well,” Aaron says. Daryl turns to him, and is shocked to find a look of sympathy on his face. “Easy part over, huh?”

Daryl stares at him, then barks a laugh, leaning his head down to rest on his crossed arms.

“Easy part over,” he mutters.

* * *

Daryl sits in his truck in the parking lot of the high school, chewing his thumb and feeling like a perv and listening to music he hopes Beth will like.

He'd been just about to call her this morning when he got her text telling him to pick her up at 5:30 by the west entrance.

She could have chosen this spot because she'll be closer to it. Could also be because it's on the opposite side of the lot from where the security officers park. He doesn't know if she has it in her to be as paranoid as him, but he certainly thinks the situation calls for it.

He went shopping for this. Spent all of five minutes in the suit section of Walmart before wandering back to the regular men's clothing and snatching up the first pair of jeans he could find; found a pair of shit-ass boots that'd fall apart in five minutes, but at least they weren't scuffed to hell. He knows he won't quite match the dress code of this event—something Aaron insists is nonexistent, but Daryl knows who most of Aaron and Eric's friends are, knows where they live, knows the price bracket their caterer is in—but he's too stressed about everything else to give much of a shit. His original plan had always been to drop into the party, pay his respects, have a beer and get out within an hour; but he doesn't know how long Beth expects to stay. He doesn't know what she does at parties. He doesn't know what _he's_ supposed to do at a party, at least at one without a mosh pit. The fuck's he gonna do there, _chat_? Stand in the corner while Beth talks to people more cultured than him, more interesting than him, younger and cleaner and without tempers and junkie brothers?

 _Beth has a junkie brother now too_ , Daryl reminds himself, and he spirals into anxiety all over again.

He's just about to give up on the whole thing and go home when the west entrance swings open and a slim figure comes tumbling out. It takes a moment for his eyes to hone in on her, and when they do, he gulps—it's Beth, it's Beth alright, pale and beautiful in a square-necked blue dress, just long enough to brush her knees, a pair of strappy black heels in her hands and nothing on her feet. Her eyes scan the lot, a cute little crinkle between her eyes, and Daryl watches her for several moments before honking his horn.

She jumps a little at the noise, her eyes darting around until they land on his truck. His heart gives a painful thump at the grin that slides across her face when she spots him.

She dashes across the lot, bare feet slapping on the pavement, and he wants to yell out that she doesn't have to hurry, that this thing will go to fucking midnight if he knows how Eric is with his parties—but the words catch in his throat. He watches her instead—watches her long legs flash in and out of sight as they pump beneath her dress, the arm with the shoes flailing while she clutches her backpack strap with the other. The way her blonde ponytail flips behind her, the way her skirt flows against her thighs, the way she grins as she catches the inside of the passenger door he pushes open, heaving herself up and slamming the door with a satisfied grunt. He watches her with her chest rising and falling and red flushing her cheeks and it was all so she didn't have to wait longer to be with him.

He hopes that's what it is. He'll choose to believe that's what it is. He's too far in to do anything else anymore.

Once she has her breathing somewhat under control, she turns to Daryl, face twisted in contrition.

“Daryl, I'm _so sorry_ I'm late,” she gushes, words tripping over each other. “We were trying to do a stage test but Derek couldn't get the mics working, and Sandra was out sick and her understudy doesn't know _anything_ so we were all runnin' around with our heads cut off and I lost track of the time—“

“Beth—“

“Like chickens,” Beth says. They both fall silent, staring at each other. “Like chickens with our heads cut off. Not people. I dunno what people are like without heads.”

Daryl blinks at her for one second, two, before falling against the steering wheel in laughter.

He doesn't remember the last time he's laughed like this. He doesn't know if he ever has, and certainly not sober; but he isn't so sure if he's sober now. The laughter is bubbling out of his belly like oxygen from a fish tank and he can hardly breathe as he convulses against the wheel, stopping only when he jabs the horn by accident, blaring a sour _honk_ into the parking lot.

The sound jolts him out of whatever attack he'd been overcome by, and he falls silent, staring at his lap. He looks at Beth slowly, from the corner of his eye.

She looks incredulous. She looks shocked out of her skin. She looks absolutely delighted, an emotion which builds as she bursts with her own laughter.

“Now _what_ is so funny, Daryl Dixon?”

“You,” he says without thinking.

He's worried for a moment that she'll take it personally, but her grin just widens, before she tips her head to mimic his posture, looking at him sideways.

“Well. Sorry I'm late,” she says.

“S'fine,” he replies.

“I'll try to keep my head on next time.”

And suddenly Daryl isn't finding this very funny anymore. Because this is serious. This moment is serious. This might be the most serious night of his goddamned life.

And he's here cackling and gawking like a goddamned idiot.

He clears his throat, leaning forward to switch on the engine. “Get outta here, then,” he mutters.

“Yes'sir, Mr. Dixon,” Beth says, unbothered by his sudden shift in mood. He pulls out of the lot, watching from the corner of his eye as Beth slides her shoes on, wrestling a little with the strap before they slide into place. When she's done she swings her backpack into her lap and then between her legs so she can buckle herself in; her dress drags up a little as she does so, and he catches a flash of thigh, and that puts his eyes directly back on the road.

“You wear that get-up to school, then?” he says, mostly to distract himself from the thought of her smooth skin.

“Nah, I changed in the bathroom; 's why my shoes were off.” Beth wiggles her toes. They've been painted with a fresh coat of pink paint; the paint on her fingers match, he notices. They make her limbs look even more delicate against the deep color of her dress and Daryl is overwhelmed by the desire to kiss each finger, each toe, let her rest her feet on his thighs while he drives.

He knows that's a bad idea. He knows she would refuse him; and even if she didn't, he'd fucking kill them, being distracted like that. He isn't doing all that well as it is—he feels shaky and dangerous as he switches into the exit lane at the last moment, jerking them in their seats.

“Sorry,” Daryl mutters.

“No problem,” Beth says. She's in an unaccountably good mood, and it only makes Daryl more nervous. “What's your friend's name, then? Whose party we're going to?”

“Aaron,” Daryl says. “I work with him.”

“Isn't that the guy your mom was trying to set me up with?”

Daryl glances at Beth. She doesn't look irritated or worried—just curious.

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “She's never gotten the concept of Aaron's marriage too well.”

Beth frowns. “That's a shame.”

Daryl shrugs. “Way it is.”

“You think you'll ever get married?”

Daryl looks at Beth for a long moment. She looks serenely back, like there isn't anything strange about that question at all.

“No,” Daryl says. “No, I don't think so.”

“Because of your parents?” Beth asks.

Daryl shrugs, thankful to catch sight of Aaron's apartment building ahead. “I guess,” he says. He's quiet a moment, then says, “Ain't like there's anyone'd want to be with me forever, anyway.”

Daryl expects Beth to refute him—it's what she does, after all—but she remains silent. He feels her eyes on him, though, as they pull into a parking spot across the street.

Daryl switches off the engine and looks at his lap, picking at a thread on his new jeans. It's a shame, he thinks, that he bought them yesterday and they're already falling apart. He guesses it's something you just can't stop.

He's aware of Beth breathing quietly in the cab beside him. With the air conditioning off, the air heats quickly, and soon Daryl feels pearls of sweat beading on his forehead.

He isn't surprised to look up and see Beth looking at him. Looking at his moving fingers, he realizes; and when he drags his nails from the fabric to spread his hand across his thigh, she follows that too.

Her eyes flick up to his, and he's surprised to see a delicate blush bloom across her face. She looks down at her own lap, smoothing her hands across the fabric of her dress.

“Maybe I'll die young, huh?” Daryl says. He attempts a smile. “Won't have to worry about forever then.”

“That ain't funny,” Beth says softly.

Daryl shifts in his seat, his own cheeks heating.

“I know,” he says. “Didn't really mean it.”

“Don't say things you don't mean.” Beth looks up at him. “Ain't enough time for that.” She holds his gaze for another long moment, then clears her throat, forcing a smile onto her face. “Let's go to this party, huh?”

“Beth,” Daryl says. She pauses with her hand on the handle, turned back to look at him. “I didn't mean it.”

Her gaze flicks between his eyes, pinning him to the spot, setting him in line. He can't decipher what she's thinking, if it's good or bad, reflects on him well or not.

But at least he knows she's thinking about him.

“I know,” she says. Another smile slides onto her face; more natural this time. “Let's make good of the time we got, huh?”

Daryl feels like he wants to argue; continue talking, anything to keep her here, wrapped in the stifling heat of the car with him. There are so many things he needs to say to her, so many things he _wants_ to say.

There aren’t many he’s ready for. But he’s getting there.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Beth. Alright.”

* * *

The apartment isn't packed when they enter, but it's amassed a sizable crowd, and Daryl instantly feels like he wants to retreat into his skin and crawl away. He knows from one look, one smell of the place, that they're all Aaron and Eric's kind of people: college educated, nice smelling, wearing clothes that've been hanging forgotten in their closets for months, just in case of occasions like this. And to Daryl, this is an _occasion_ : A bluegrass and pop mix filters from speakers in the corners of the room, and there's an entire table dedicated to hor d'oeuvres, another to drinks. Eric might not have gotten his free food, but there's still a fine assortment—pigs in blankets and breadsticks and the wontons you stick in the microwave, complete with feathered little toothpicks. When he and Beth enter no fewer than a dozen curious eyes fall on them. If she were not walking behind him, he would have fled then and there.

Then Aaron's appearing from the crowd, and Daryl remembers why he's here. He wants something real with Beth. And this is real. This is something real people do. Aaron and Eric are real people who can help him with that.

It doesn't make it any easier, to see him looking Beth over, matching her to the picture in his head, the one in Daryl's phone; adjusting to the dissonance they make, standing side by side, Daryl with hastily brushed hair and Beth golden and lovely. Daryl realizes that Aaron is the only person in the world who knows even a fraction of how he feels about Beth. He doesn't know whether that makes this easier or not.

“I'm so glad you could make it, Daryl,” Aaron says, walking up and offering a warm hand. Daryl shakes it. He feels comforted by the familiar calluses he finds there—the reminder that for all the different circles they run in, the different lives they lead and have led, they come from the same place. They work with their hands, they earn a living serving others, they get looked at differently for who they are. Of anyone in the world—save Beth, maybe—Aaron will be the last to judge him.

He has two of those now, Daryl realizes. Two people he can talk to, who talk to him, who _want_ to talk to him. And he didn't even recognize them until recently.

And now Aaron is looking at Beth, Beth looking at Aaron, and a little spark of pride builds in Daryl's chest, that he's lucky enough to know both of them.

“You're Beth?” Aaron asks, as if he needs to know.

“Yeah. Aaron, right?” Beth meets his eyes and shakes his hand with ease, and once again Daryl wonders at the fact that he is the one so much older than her.

“It's so good to meet you,” Aaron says earnestly. Daryl is a little amused to see a blush spread across Beth's cheeks.

“You too,” Beth says. “Daryl talks about you a lot.”

Aaron raises his eyebrows, and it's Daryl's turn to color. “Does he?” Aaron asks.

“Yup,” Beth says. “Best boss he ever had.”

Aaron laughs. “From what I've heard, that isn't too great an accomplishment.”

“It really isn't,” Daryl mutters. “This an open bar?”

Aaron gives him a friendly smirk. “Nothing harder than wine, I'm afraid.”

“I'll take it,” Daryl says. “Be–“

Daryl stops, mouth snapping shut, realizing exactly what he was just about to ask.

His eyes fall on Beth's, and there's something deeper in them than the genial politeness she had been carrying. Something that makes his heart pound.

“You looking to get me drunk again, Mr. Dixon?”

“Again?” Aaron asks.

Daryl ignores him as he stares at Beth, at the building flush in her cheeks, at the pale skin of her chest, the flare of her collarbones. He realizes they haven't talked about when he's supposed to get her home and he wonders what _would_ happen, were he to get her drunk again.

He wonders what would happen if he doesn’t.

“I'm fine,” she says after several long, pounding moments. She smiles. “We'll need someone to drive your drunk butt home.”

“Glad someone else has that job,” Aaron says.

“Fuck you,” Daryl mutters, then flees towards the alcohol.

He takes his time, staring at the different labels as if they mean anything to him, eventually pouring himself a glass of the most expensive looking red they have. He swings by the food table, too, pushing a little roughly past the crowd to snag the last of the pigs in blankets, load up on the veggie platter so Aaron won't give him that look. After a moment of consideration, he makes a plate for Beth too—he remembers that she ordered a cheese omelette at the diner, so he grabs a bunch of the cheese and crackers along with more veggies. He almost drops everything when a tipsy couple bumps into him. He bites back his angry retort, if just barely, and decides that it's probably a good idea if he limits himself on the booze tonight. Trying to make a good impression, after all.

Eric has joined Aaron and Beth by the time he returns. Instead of walking right up, though, he pauses, swaying in the middle of the room as he watches them. They're in mid laugh, now; responding to something Eric said, by their body language. Beth seems to find it especially funny; she looks ready to collapse in giggles, one hand pressed to her chest, the other to her mouth as she struggles to contain herself.

There's something strange in watching her when she doesn't know he is. To see her attention directed towards others, uncaring of how she looks to him. He feels, in this moment, invisible; but not in a bad way. In the way that he can look at her and fall into her without worrying about bringing her down too.

It doesn't last for long, for as Eric continues talking he sees her begin to look around. The longer it lasts the more Daryl's heart pounds. He knows what she's looking for. She's looking for _him_.

She finds him, eyes meeting through the crowd in a moment that takes Daryl's breath away; for her gaze snagging on his is followed half a moment later by a smile. Something soft, intimate, shared; and he feels suddenly as if they have looked at each other across a hundred rooms like this; as if their eyes have caught and held and pushed the world away as they speak without words, assure themselves of the other's existence, of the string connecting their bodies even with so many other bodies in the room.

Those bodies don't matter. They don't exist. All that exists is Beth, and her smile, and the tilt of her head drawing him to her side.

Eric pauses in his story when he sees Daryl coming, a characteristic grin splitting his face as he lunges for him. Aaron has the forethought to grab the plates of food out of Daryl's hands before his husband latches onto him, hugging his stiff body while Daryl pats his back awkwardly.

“Been way too long since I've seen you!”

Daryl grunts, glaring at Beth's amused face until Eric pulls back. Aaron hands Daryl's food back without even looking at him, eyes only for his husband as he continues to talk. Daryl sidles up to Beth's side and passes her her plate.

“This is for me?” she asks, looking up at him wide-eyed.

“I ain't eating all of it,” Daryl grumbles.

She's giving him that look again—like she thinks he's said something more than he's said, like it's touched her somehow—and he swallows and takes too large a chug of wine, containing his choking as his face heats. He isn't any kind of connoisseur, but even as he fights to clear his airway he can tell this is the good shit.

Thankfully, no one seems to notice his attack; Eric keeps chatting away while Aaron hangs on his every word as if he hasn't heard this story a million times before.

Beth stands close to Daryl. Very close, close enough that Daryl has trouble concentrating on exactly what Eric is saying. Her proximity lights his nerves like a buzz of electricity. Even through his sleeves, he can feel the heat of her arm pressed to his; even over the noise of the party, he hears her jaw working on the crackers, feels her soft breath when she turns to look at him. He doesn't meet her eyes but he does glance down and the look on her face damn near stops his heart.

He might fuck this girl tonight.

It's been in the back of his head since he invited her to this damn thing. How could it not be, with the way she's sat in his brain for weeks, sparking pathways his neurons had long forgotten about, filling his cock and his chest with too-fast heartbeats? He still feels like a pervert, he still feels like a fraud, thinking someone like her could really want him—but the rest of it is speaking louder now. The parts that say he deserves his happiness where he can get it, and so does she; the parts that listen to Aaron and Carol instead of his pop's voice rolling rank and ruinous in his memories.

He thinks suddenly about taking her hand—here in this room full of people, in front of two of his only friends, he thinks of taking her hand. And it would be easy, in the end—so easy to set his food aside and reach that short distance between them, twine his fingers with hers.

 _A chance to feel like a real couple,_ Aaron had said. Daryl doesn't know what that feels like. He doesn't know what that is. He doesn't know if it's Aaron and Eric, or Carol and Ed, or his mom and his dad. He thinks of Jimmy and he thinks that what Jimmy and Beth could have would be real. Ferris wheels and kisses outside the locker room and carefully supervised visits to each other's bedrooms.

Daryl could spend as much time in Beth's bedroom as he wanted. Hershel wouldn’t question Beth's stepbrother spending time with her, not with the right excuse. Movies, board games. Sibling bonding, he would think, just like Karen did. Something healthy, finally, in a pair of families so broken.

And he would have his hands down her pants, maybe. His mouth on her tit, lips closing over the nipple and flicking it with his tongue, sucking until her hands tangle in his hair in blissed-out agony. They could close the door and commit all manner of sins and no one would even guess.

And for the first time, this thought doesn't make Daryl feel like he's splitting in two. It makes him curious. It makes him excited, to see how much they could get away with.

He could fuck this girl tonight.

Her gasp brings him back to the moment, her hand gripping his arm even more so. He almost jumps away from her, the stimulus is so much, so sudden; but he contains himself, swallowing his bite of cauliflower through a thick throat.

“I love this song!” Beth is exclaiming, looking up at him with bright eyes. “Come on, let's dance!”

Daryl blinks down at her, and all the certainty of the moments before have evaporated. Outside his own head, he's as lost as he ever was.

“Uh–“

“C'mon, Daryl, please?” she says, circling her small hand around his wrist. “Just one song?”

He looks out at the crowd of people—standing around, chatting, sipping wine. A few couples have broken into cheesy dance moves, more bopping to the beat than anything. Daryl imagines himself trying to look like one of them and his palms sweat, his breath comes short. He doesn't look at her when he shakes his head mutely.

It cuts him through the chest, the way her hand falls away from him; slowly, and then all at once, fingers slipping off his wrist to tap softly at the bare skin of her leg.

Daryl looks at her pink-painted fingernails, shimmering against her softer-pink flesh. He thinks about those pinks against his own roughness and he feels unsure all over again.

“Aw, hell,” Eric says suddenly, drawing their eyes, “It's been a long time since I danced with a pretty girl.” He makes a flourishing bow, drawing a snort from his husband, extending his hand towards Beth. “M'lady?”

Daryl feels Beth looking at him—as if for permission, and ain't that a laugh and a half—but it is only a few moments before she giggles and settles her hand into Eric's.

“Kind sir,” she says. Daryl takes her food mutely, avoiding her eyes when she glances back before following Eric into the middle of the room.

Despite his malaise, Daryl can't help but snort when Eric starts dancing, flailing uncoordinated limbs; and he snorts again, only partially in dismay, when he pays attention to the lyrics.

“Appropriate,” he mutters, taking another gulp of wine.

Aaron echoes his snort, and Daryl becomes aware of the man moving to stand beside him so they can watch the dancers together.

 _Their dancers,_ Daryl thinks; theirs.

“Hope it's alright,” Daryl mutters, “Her dancing with him.”

“I'm not exactly worried about her stealing him away,” Aaron says drily. He stands quietly for a few moments, foot tapping to the beat. Daryl puts up the pretense of looking into his wine, but he can't help peering at Beth through his bangs. She isn't a graceful dancer, not at all; but what she lacks in technique she makes up for in enthusiasm, dancing like she's alone, like no one is watching.

But she knows he's watching. She meets his eyes a few times, throwing glances over her shoulder and through her flying hair. And soon Daryl isn't even pretending to look away. Not at all. He stares unabashedly, at her back and at her hips and her long slim legs.

And her smile. Her wide, bright smile as she dances for him.

“She's something,” Aaron says softly.

“Yeah,” Daryl replies, downing his wine. He's used to much harder liquor in much larger quantities; but between the music and the people and her body in that dress, he already feels close to drunk. “Yeah. She's something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Beth starts dancing to is "Hey Soul Sister" by Train. So. Appropriate.


	19. Such a Lot of World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl doesn't know what he expected to happen after the party; didn't let himself think that far ahead. But now the time is here, and it's him and Beth, and Daryl might finally be ready to be there with her together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of rough sex/dub-con; these do NOT actually occur.

Daryl can smell the light scent of her sweat from where he sits, driving almost under the speed-limit as they crawl away from Aaron and Eric's apartment.

They stayed for two and a half hours and Daryl doesn't know where all that time went. He spent most of it standing at Beth's shoulder; like a bodyguard, like a gargoyle, snarling at anyone who treated her with anything less that the utmost respect. Not that anyone did. Aaron and Eric have decent friends. He _likes_ Aaron and Eric's friends. He didn't really speak with any of them, but he watched Beth speak with them and she seemed to enjoy herself and in the end that's all that matters, isn't it?

He drank a glass of wine for every hour they stayed, and he isn't 100% sure he would pass a breathalyzer were they to get pulled over. That's how he justifies his speed. That's how he avoids exactly where they're headed. Exactly what that means. Exactly what's expected of him.

The thing is, he doesn't know if Beth expects anything. She isn't acting like she does, doesn't seem nervous. She sits quietly in the seat beside him, hands folded neatly in her lap as she looks out the window at the storefronts going by. He can tell she's thinking hard and he won't let himself hope it's about him.

“You had a good time?” he asks, wincing at himself as soon as the words leave his mouth. It's a mistake to begin conversations, he knows that. It's why he doesn't speak much; once you start them, they're impossible to stop, not without some amount of awkwardness. But he finds himself compelled to speak to her. Compelled to know whether he fucked up or not, by inviting her here.

He keeps his eyes on the road but he feels her looking at him and he fights to keep his thumbnail out of his mouth.

“I did,” she says. He hears her shifting in her seat. “I haven't been to a party like that since Mama was alive,” she says. “Well. Except for the funeral.”

Daryl frowns, glancing at her. “This felt like–“

“No, no, I didn't mean it like that. Just... a grownup party. With grownups. I like that.”

“Hmm.” Daryl flexes his hands on the wheel, cracks his neck. “Ain't the kind of party I'm used to either.” Beth giggles, and Daryl glances at her, frowning again. “What?”

“No, I'm just... I'm remembering that house party. The second time we met, remember?”

Daryl snorts. “Yeah. You seen that Tony kid since then?”

“Since you almost took his balls off?” Beth asks with another giggle. “Yeah, a few times. He never sticks around for long. Seems afraid I carry you around in my handbag or something.”

“He bothers you again, you fucking let me know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm serious,” Daryl says, glaring at her.

His glare doesn't really know what to do with itself when she reaches out, lays a hand on his thigh. He settles for turning back towards the road, swallowing.

“I know,” she says. “Thank you.”

Daryl shrugs, but not violently enough to dislodge her hand. “Asshole needs someone to teach him manners.”

“I know,” she says again. “ _Thank you_.”

Daryl nods jerkily, and falls silent; but Beth doesn't move her hand.

He's slowed to a crawl by the time they reach his block, and he stops in front of his walkup, car idling. Beth's hand is still on his leg, and the heat of it wraps around his body like a vice.

“Uh,” he says. “I dunno if you want me to take you home or–“

“I can come up,” Beth says. “If you don't mind.”

Daryl nods, thumbing the wheel. “Yeah, don't... don't mind.”

Beth squeezes his leg, sending tingles up and down his thigh, before pulling her hand back to rest in her lap, play with her own fingers. Daryl drags his eyes away so he can park and get out and rush around to open her door so he's in time to catch her grateful smile.

Their footsteps seem to echo more loudly than normal as they ascend the four flights, Daryl in front with Beth close behind. He's used to the climb, but by the time they reach his landing he finds he's sweating.

He opens the door and lets her inside first.

It's as strange as it was the first time to see her in his apartment; doubly strange in her heels and pretty dress. Nothing has changed since the last time she was here—save the lack of Merle, of course—but she still looks around like she's never seen the place.

Daryl feels a quivery shiver work through his stomach as he closes and locks the door, making sure the deadbolt is secure before turning back around. He doesn't know if he's locking the world out, or locking them in. Very likely, it's both.

“Want water or something?” he asks.

Beth turns to him and nods and he avoids her eyes as he heads for the kitchen, sharpened ears catching the sound of her taking her shoes off.

 _Means to stay a while, then,_ Daryl thinks, opening the fridge and pausing there for a moment to cool his steaming cheeks.

He downs his own glass of water before drawing hers, hoping it will calm at least some of the buzz in his blood, alcohol-induced or not.

She's sitting cross-legged on the couch when he comes back, shoes on the floor before her, phone in her lap as her fingers fly across the keyboard. He stands for a moment to watch her; the absent-minded way she chews on her lip as she types, the poke of a tongue as she concentrates. Her ponytail is in a fine state of disarray, with strands falling down all around her face, brushing her delicate collarbones, the line of her neck. She tilts her head to the side and he sees her muscle tighten beneath the skin, going taut like the strings of a tuned violin.

She finishes her message and puts her phone down, still chewing her lip as she rereads the conversation. Her eyebrows are scrunched low, jaw tense, and for a moment Daryl thinks she looks nervous.

He must make some noise for her head flies up and she's looking at him and all those nerves blast their way into his body like a hail of bullets.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.”

Daryl pauses before walking forward, and before he completes the first step she's standing, smoothing the skirt over her hips as she watches him approach. He wonders what he looks like to her. If he looks large and intimidating, like he knows he appears to women sometimes. If she feels safe here, if she wants to leave, if she thinks _he_ doesn't want her to leave, if she's worried what he'll do if she tries.

He blinks and he's standing in front of her with the glass of water held in his numb hand.

“Here,” he says dumbly.

A small smile flits across her face, and Beth takes the water, sipping it almost daintily.

He feels like he should back away now. They're standing closer than is proper—one large exhale would have their chests brushing—but she doesn't move and he finds he doesn't want to. He feels like he's moved past mindless panic to a strange sense of peace. Of calm. Of inevitability.

_Whatever will be will be._

“What did you say?”

Daryl blinks. He hadn't meant to speak aloud, but now Beth's looking at him with curiosity and he doesn't have the energy anymore to turn her away.

“Something my ma used to say,” he mutters. “Think it was from a movie or some shit.”

“Doris Day,” Beth says.

Daryl frowns. “That's the movie?”

Beth giggles, swaying closer to him as she does. “No, the actress. She sings it. _Que sera, sera,_ whatever will be will be. From the fifties, I think.”

“Don't know much about old movies,” Daryl says.

“I used to watch them all the time, when I was home sick,” Beth says. She smiles, soft and biding. “We should watch some sometime.”

Daryl shrugs. If his non-answer bothers her, she doesn't show it. She sways back and forth again and suddenly her hand is twining with his to sway along with her and Daryl feels like a pair of jaws have closed around his chest.

She is avoiding his gaze, looking at their feet instead. It looks so odd, his heavy boots beside her tiny toes. With him in shoes and her barefoot, their height difference is even more pronounced than normal. He finds he likes it. He likes it a lot. It makes him feel like he could pick her up, put her in his pocket and take her everywhere with him, her soft voice whispering in his ear. Not that she doesn't already do that anyway.

And then she _is_ whispering to him, her voice in a register that makes him shiver.

“This ok?” she asks.

He shrugs again, simply because he can't form any motion other than one he is repeating.

They stand like that for a while, holding hands and swaying, looking at their feet and drifting closer and closer.

Daryl nearly falls backward when her head snaps up. It feels as if her eyes catching hold of his is all that keeps him from dropping.

“That's two dances you owe me now, Daryl Dixon.”

“...What?” he asks. He realizes that his hand has tightened on hers, so much so that he feels the bones grind; he loosens his hold immediately, but she continues to grip him like a lifeline. His palms are getting sweaty, and he almost wishes she would let go. Almost.

“The Moonshiner, and tonight. Two times you haven't danced with me.” Her words are accusatory, but her face, her tone softens it—playful, almost, and warm. “Gonna have to start keeping tabs, Dixon.”

Daryl shrugs once more, looking at her through his bangs. “Ain't one for dancing, 's all.”

Beth's smile widens. “It's the number one way to encourage affection, you know. Even if one's partner is barely tolerable.”

Daryl snorts, bumping Beth's hip with their entwined hands. “I've seen that one.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“What'd you think?”

Daryl shrugs. “Darcy's a lucky bastard, she comes back to him after all that.” He allows himself to stroke his thumb across the back of hers, and only blushes a little when she shivers. “'S good though. The bit in the field was nice. At sunrise.”

“That's my favorite part,” Beth says softly. She bites her lip, then bends down to set her water on the coffee table; when she straightens, she's close enough that he can feel her chest against the front of his shirt. “Sorta standing the same as them, aren't we?”

Daryl swallows. “I guess.”

“Hmm.” Beth tightens her hold on his hand again, fingers winding tighter. She looks at him, and her eyes are luminous. “You owe me a dance, Daryl Dixon.”

And then she's stepping closer and Daryl can't breathe because she's setting their joined hands on her waist and leaving his there. She sets her hands on his shoulders as he stares at her dumbly, free hand hanging at his side while the other trembles against the fabric of her dress.

“You really never done this?” she asks, reaching down to place his hand on her hip before returning to his shoulder.

Daryl shakes his head, trying to breathe through his nose so the smell of his dinner doesn't blast her in the face. From this close it would be a blast; he knows because that's what her own breath feels like against his throat, his collarbone; a wash of ocean water rolling across his shore.

“I wanna, though,” he says. “I wanna.”

“Me too,” Beth says.

Even as they were speaking, they had begun to sway again, and it strikes Daryl how easy this is; to stand against her, chests pressed together in earnest now, so tightly he can feel the ruching of her bodice and her breasts tight between them; to settle into this rhythm, this rocking that drifts them closer and closer together until they are practically standing between each other's legs. Where Daryl is so used to feeling nothing now he feels everything—the warmth emanating from the bare skin of her clavicle, the brush of her bare legs against his jeans, the pressure of her hands as they migrate from his shoulders to twine around his neck, play with the hair at his nape. He doesn't think he's ever felt this ridiculous in his life and he never wants it to end.

Beth isn't looking at him, at least—although part of him wants her to; wants her to badly. She's looking at his chest instead, staring at the triangle of flesh left uncovered by his shirt. He swallows, and her lips twitch as she watches his throat move, making him swallow again at the air her nose washes against his skin.

She's humming, he realizes; as he's stared at her she's begun to hum, something soft and dreamy that settles deep into his bones, slows his pounding heart. He closes his eyes and ducks his head closer, close enough that he's sure she can feel his breath on her face. The thought doesn't bother him too much.

She makes him weak, weaker than anyone in the history of the world—but she makes him brave too.

“That Doris Day again?”

Beth's breath hitches as his voice rumbles between them, and she falls silent for a moment. He opens his eyes and sees her own have closed, her head ducked as well, nose almost skimming his throat.

“Audrey Hepburn,” she says. She hums a few more bars, and he closes his eyes again. Sometime in their swaying his hands have tightened on her waist to a legitimate grip, holding her steady against him as she moves them both with the rocking of her hips. His erection brushes her stomach every so often, but if she notices she is ignoring it; it is that that makes him want to grind into her harder, make her feel it, feel him, feel everything he's felt these months since she came running down a flight of stairs.

 _Does she know?_ he wonders, opening his eyes to slits when he feels her forehead press to his chest, the fluttery sigh of her breath as she releases it. _She has to know,_ he thinks. _It's too much for just one person to feel._

But he doesn't feel like one person anymore. Standing in place in his shitty living room with his arms around this girl and her face pressed to his throat, her sweet voice filling the air between and around them until it wraps them together like a cocoon—he isn't just him anymore. He feels like a melting candle, a core dripping into fluid, flowing to fill her body, his container, the solid being that gives him shape.

“Beth,” he says, and he doesn't know when he's dropped this far forward but his lips brush her forehead when he speaks. Instead of jerking away from the invasion of space, she presses into it, kissing herself on his mouth. “Beth,” he tries again. “When do you need to go?”

 _Never,_ he thinks. _Never._

“Daddy thinks I'm at Diane's,” she says. Her eyes flick up, not quite meeting his, but skirting his cheekbones, his ears sticking out of his hair. Her voice too is hushed, like too much noise will shatter them both. “I texted her. She'll cover for me, if he calls.”

“All night?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, tightening her arms around his neck until she's flush against him and he _knows_ she can feel him now; knows from her sharp intake of breath, the way her stomach tightens before relaxing, moulding into his hips until he's clenching his jaw to keep from thrusting against her. His palms are on the small of her back now, nearly spanning her width with a single spread hand. His arms feel at once strong as steel and loose as jelly.

“Is that ok?”

He breathes in shakily as her fingers begin to trail along his neck, migrating down his arms to circle his waist, helping him hold their bodies together. She smells so sweet, he thinks; even the light layer of sweat settled on her skin doesn't bother him. It smells clean. It smells young. It smells like everything he isn't and has never been and will never be again, but that doesn't stop him from dropping his head towards her neck and trying to inhale every drop.

“Daryl?”

“What?” He's shaking, he realizes, as his hands work up and down her back, spanning her shoulder blades, the dip of her spine, playing with the zip of her dress with trembling fingers. She must feel it, for she shivers against him too, presses closer, and he can't help the way his hips jump against her, just this once.

She moans, though; a breathy thing, barely heard, barely there. He looks down at her and her eyes are squeezed shut and her chest rises and falls too rapidly and he's so turned on he feels like he's going to die.

“Is that ok?”

Her eyes open and he closes his and lets his cheek rest on her cheek, the bridge of her nose, breathes in her trembling breath as her nose drifts against his. They're still moving, still swaying, but back and forth more than side to side, and Daryl inhales sharply when Beth's hands tighten on his back, pulling her hips towards his so she can feel him stiff and hard against her.

“I want...” she says, and he thinks she's about to cry. “Daryl, please.”

“Beth,” he whispers, fisting his hand in the back of her dress, drawing it tight across her chest. There is too much fabric in the bodice to see much of anything; but he imagines if she were in that yellow dress she came to him in. That yellow dress that looked so lovely against her pink skin, her flushed skin; would have looked even nicer hovering above her sweet thighs as he spread her legs and slipped his fingers inside her. She had looked so perfect below him, youthful and grown all at once in his too-big shirt; but he imagines her in her dress. The innocent yellow dress that fluttered around her strong legs as she ran between him and the dance floor, stuck to her thighs, moulded to her flat stomach and small chest. She wore a bra that day but she's small enough that she didn't need to. He wonders if she's wearing a bra now. He doesn't think he'd be disappointed either way.

“Daryl,” Beth says again, more earnest, more desperate, and they aren't even pretending to dance anymore; just clutch each other in the middle of Daryl's living room, the place smelling of beer and old laundry and her, her, above all her as his nose skims her cheek and her breath bathes his chin, tickling his whiskers and drying his mouth. He licks his lips and almost catches her nose with his tongue and she moans again, high and breathy, begging. For something. Begging for something. Begging for him.

He flutters his eyes open and he sees his father in the corner of the room.

_Tattooed arms crossed, slouched against the wall, eyebrows raised and lips pursed in amusement as he watches his younger son dance. Dance; what a laugh; what a pussy move to be pressed all against a honey like this without getting his cock out already, pushing her to her knees and putting her to work. She would feel divine around his cock; soft lips plump and pink and bowed like a Lolita, made to suck dick, made to lick cum from. Her mouth stretched across the heft of his cock, head held in place with punishing hands until tears stream down her cheeks, until she's crying from reflex and from pain as he buries his cock in her throat, holds her nose against his pubic hair, dumps his cum inside her. Pushes her off of him until she sprawls on the floor, face a mess, absolutely wrecked as he spits at her feet and leaves her to take care of herself._

Daryl’s lost count of how many times he's seen that over the years. Men in alleys or bars or bedrooms, punishing women on their cocks; his pop dragging his ma's face or his whores' faces up and down his disgusting dick, dipping in and out of their asses, making them taste it, slapping their faces with the squelch. He knows how a man like him is supposed to take a woman, especially a woman like Beth. He should want to debase her. He should want to see her ruined.

 _Be a man, boy,_ Will Dixon says. _Fuck that slut. Fuck her till she can't fuck ever again without thinkin' of you tearin' her open. Wreck that pussy. Fuck her till she sobs and make her enjoy it._

She isn't moaning but she's breathing like she wants to, like just his proximity, the press of his covered cock is making her a slut for it, bringing her to her knees to worship his dick.

 _That's all women want,_ Will always said. _A firm hand and a hard fuck and someone who likes to hear them say no._

Daryl is shaking harder and he knows she thinks it's from desire, and he knows that some of it is—that there's something inside him that thrills to his father's words, that makes him long to take her small body and break it apart.

But she's so soft. She's so warm. She's so sweet and kind and in all her goodness she's choosing him to press her body against, to wrap her arms around, to breathe onto his mouth as she begs.

And he'll give her what she begs for, he thinks. He'll take his old and scarred body and he'll make something good of it.

Part of him wants to take her like an animal. Shove her to the sofa, bend her over, ravage her pussy until she can't walk straight. Use her body and take his pleasure and make his pop proud.

But he doesn't want to. _He_ doesn't want to.

“It's ok,” she whispers. “It's ok to want me, I promise. I know you do. I feel it. God, I feel it, Daryl, I want you so much.”

His breath is on her mouth now, breathing back to him with the sweet smell of her cherry chapstick, her cheese-tinged breath. His pulse pounds in his lips and his head and every inch of his body.

They've been dancing for a long time now.

He feels like he's been preparing for this dance his entire life.

He closes his hands on her back. Closes his eyes on his father.

Closes his mouth on her lips.

Her lips.

_Christ._

She tastes just like she smells, just like he remembers—something sweet and soft that echoes through his body like a hiss down his spine, and when she moans this time he feels it—feels it in his teeth and his tongue where it strokes against her lips, is granted entry immediately to the hot wet of her mouth as her hands form claws in his back like she wants to rip him open and climb inside. And he would let her. He would let her mutilate him, tear him apart, beat and batter and bleed him if only she would allow him to kiss her a little bit longer.

“Daryl,” she murmurs into his mouth, voice dreamy and far away like she doesn't quite believe this is happening either. “God... _god_ , Daryl, you feel so _good_ –“

“Beth,” he whispers desperately, moving a hand up from her back to cup her skull, pull her in close as he changes his angle, works his tongue against hers earnest and clumsy. “I want,” he says, “I want...”

“I want you,” she says. “I want you, Daryl.

 _I want you too, girl,_ he thinks. _I want you too. I_ want _you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Beth hums is "Moon River" from _Breakfast at Tiffany's_.


	20. Discover Me Discovering You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has her now. In his apartment, in his arms, her taste on his lips. She's been willing—been begging—for everything he's given her so far.
> 
> It's up to him how much farther they'll go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mary as always :)
> 
> This chapter is also dedicated to Jenn and Jackie for kicking my butt into commitment mode.
> 
> I also want to take a moment to thank everyone who is commenting. I don't have time to reply to every single one of you (and I feel like such a douche saying that, gosh), but I read and appreciate ALL of them. It's such a blessing that so many people are following this story, and it really makes me want to work harder :)

In the end it's her who breaks the kiss; her who looks up at him with flushed cheeks and swollen lips and takes his hand and leads him to his own bedroom.

He put effort into cleaning it this morning. He felt so dirty doing it, assuming something like this would happen, but now he's glad; the sheets are new and the floor vacuumed and the air practically dripping with Febreeze. Aside from a dirty pair of boxers half under the bed, there is nothing to be ashamed of.

Nothing. Not here. Not with her.

“It's weird being here when I'm sober,” she says.

“Same here,” he says.

She giggles, turning to him and leaning into his side to nuzzle his neck, sending a shiver up and down his spine.

“I dunno, Dixon. You're acting pretty drunk right now.”

“How's that?”

She smiles up at him, leaning her chest against his as she squeezes his hand.

“Your face is flushed,” she says, going on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Your pupils are dilated.” She kisses his other cheek. She leans her forehead against his, settles her free hand on his chest, over his heart. “You're warm,” she whispers.

“Ain't thinking too clearly either,” he says, lipping at her hairline as she giggles again.

“Me neither.”

She looks up at him, and suddenly he feels her withdraw—her face tightens and her aspect changes, dropping a stone of distress in his stomach.

“What?” he asks, not able to keep the panic from his voice.

Beth instantly relaxes, melting against him and shaking her head. “No, it's not, I just...” She trails off, worrying her lip as she looks at him. “I want... I wanna be with you. Right now, I wanna be with you.” Her voice is whispery, breathless and rushed, and it makes Daryl's heart pound. “But I don't... I never...”

“Beth,” Daryl says, pressing his forehead to hers as her mouth clicks shut. “Tell me.”

“I'm not ready for... everything,” she says, a fierce blush suffusing her face. “I don't... I don't want you to feel disappointed, or that I don't want you, cause I do, I swear I do–“

“Beth,” he says, cutting her off. “I'm about to fucking come in my pants. I ain't ready for that either.”

That shuts her up for sure, leaving her mouth hanging open as she searches for a reply.

Daryl's just about to feel uncomfortable when she laughs shortly, leaning up to kiss his chin.

“Thank you,” she says.

“I ain't gonna do nothing you don't want, Beth.”

Something in his voice—the urgency of it, perhaps, the begging in it—gives her pause again; she blinks up at him long and slow, then raises a hand to cup his cheek. He breathes out slowly, leaning his cheek against her, eyes fluttering closed.

“I know, Daryl,” she says, voice warm and close. He feels her breath on his mouth again. “I trust you.”

This kiss is slow, just as tentative as the one in the living room, but it also pounds more heavily in Daryl's blood, just from the knowledge that the bed is there; the bed where he first touched her, the bed where he spent night upon night thinking about this, just this—drifting his hands up and down her sides, thumbing the sides of her breasts as her breath catches, her tongue pausing against his as she works to take in all the new sensations. As she begins moving again, her hands too wander; lingering on his stomach before crawling up his chest, toying with the buttons of his shirt, testing the give of his muscles with the heels of her palms. Daryl moans softly at her touch, alternating between kneading and a delicate brush, like even before his canvas is revealed she's using her hands to paint him. He curves his arms around her back, drawing her close until her breasts are pressed to her own knuckles. She scrunches her fingers against him, making him moan again.

And then her hands are crawling away and her breasts are pressed to him tight. Like before, it's hard to feel them through the bunched fabric of her dress, but he knows they're there; remembers what they looked like, felt like when he pressed them into the middles of his palms where they burned like stakes, burned like wounds as they swelled up into points. It had been agonizing, that fumble to touch her, to have her before sense returned.

This time, he can take his time. He won't have to drown his conscience, anticipate her inevitable refusal. He won't have to blast into her with the urgency of oncoming regret.

They're past that. He's past that. He can touch her and he won't be crucified. He won't be burned.

Her hands wander to his waist, tickling his obliques until he twitches, and she giggles into his mouth, flicking his lips with her tongue. And Daryl smiles too. He smiles into the kiss like he's never done with any kiss before in his life. It's an odd sensation, to leave himself so loose, so open to her as she licks past his stretched lips, eases through his relaxed jaw. She moans into him softly as his hand slides to the small of her back, his middle finger finding the elastic of her panties beneath her dress; she moans, and he whimpers, nearly bending forward with the weight of what's waiting for him there.

She pulls away from him. Looks at him with her big eyes. Breathes against his mouth and smiles with her lips and when her hands come around to crawl beneath his shirt, press deliberately against the scars at the base of his own spine—

He does drop.

He drops to his knees in the middle of his bedroom, closing his eyes so she doesn't have to see what's happening inside them—how these tastes of her have been so divine, so sweet, and to ask for the rest of it—to touch the elastic of her panties while she touches the edges of his scars, both the frontiers of lands they've barely explored but with each other might yearn to try—he hasn't the words for it. Language escapes him, silent and worded both; and he sits on his knees with his head bowed, struggling not to make a sound.

He's aware of her breathing, her stomach moving up and down against his forehead. He's aware of his heartbeat, thundering through his chest, looking to skip past the bounds of his arteries and ligaments, run free throughout his body so he might ache equally all over. He's aware of the choking in his throat and then he's aware of her hands in his hair and he allows her to turn him upward like she's lifting his face towards the sun.

She looked nervous before, on the couch texting her friend. He understands why. Once she sent those texts, there was no going back. Not really. Even if nothing happened, Diane would ask. The intent would be there, in these rooms and their lives, lingering between them like a ghost. Sending that message was the moment her final decision was made. How could she not be trepidatious, lingering on that precipice?

She looked nervous then. But now she looks terrified.

Daryl curls his hands around her ankles, resting the heels of his palms on the tops of her feet. Her touch in his hair is light but he presses into it, encouraging her searching fingers, and soon she's gripping him like he's the anchor keeping her from flying apart.

“Beth?” he asks.

She opens her mouth, then shakes her head mutely, beginning to run her hands through his hair, scratching lightly against his scalp until his eyes flutter closed and he breathes deep. She traces the shells of his ears, the lines of his cheekbones, the shape of his skull. She cups the back of it and draws him forward so his chin rests on her stomach, and pauses there; he opens his eyes, searching her.

She still looks scared. But there's awe there too.

“You really want me?” she asks.

Daryl blinks at her, eyelids a slow bass line to the racing staccato of his heart. He breathes in and smells her, all around him, inside him, soaking his skin before he's even found his way to the source of that flood.

He's on his knees before this girl and she asks if he wants her.

He wants to laugh, but his throat is too thick, and it comes out as a moan instead. He cups his hands around the backs of her thighs, pulling her in until she has to tighten her hands in his hair again to stay upright. He keeps his gaze on hers as he buries the rest of his face in her stomach, feels how deceptive her softness is in the taut cords he feels beneath her skin.

“You're fucking asking me that?” he asks.

She twists her lips, in embarrassment he thinks. “I mean, I know you do, I just...” She shakes her head, running a thumb over his eyebrow. “No one's ever wanted me before,” she says softly. “Not really.”

She's talking about more than sex, now, more than bodies. He knows that. He thinks she knows it too.

They'll make that clear later, maybe, when it isn't all so raw, when pushing farther won't leave them bleeding across the carpet. After all, he suspects she has her scars too.

“Me neither.”

He circles his hands to the front of her thighs, and gives her a push.

She goes easily, glancing behind her as she steps back. She looks back down at him as she's sinking to the bed and her cheeks are bright red.

Daryl's breath is growing shallow as he lets his eyes wander her body, take in her flushed chest, the way her breast rises and falls, the drape of her dress between her legs as he spreads them gently, shuffles between them. His fingers are trembling where they trace the hem of her dress, the caps of her knees, and when his eyes catch the apex of her thighs she stops breathing and he thinks he does too.

“What are you thinking?” Beth whispers.

Daryl hesitates, then brings his hand down, slides it slowly up her calf. She must have shaved this morning, for her skin is smooth as silk. “You're so fucking pretty,” he says, his fingers brushing the back of her knee. She twitches at the touch, curling her toes. “I dunno if I ever told you how pretty you are.”

Beth giggles a little at that, drawing his eyes to her face. Her cheeks are still flushed, but she's looking more relaxed.

“I don't think that's something I'd forget. Not from you.”

It's Daryl's turn to blush, ducking his head and pressing his cheek to her knee, enjoying the feel of her smooth skin against his scruffy cheek. He opens his eyes and he looks at the space between her legs again.

His cock has lain mostly forgotten for the past few minutes. He's used to the low hum of arousal that presses him against his zipper, makes him fight not to touch himself and release the pressure. It's so mundane at this point, and he's been so focused on not letting the other emotions show on his face, that the awareness of that arousal had drained away.

But now he's looking at her crotch where, under several layers of cloth, lies her pussy. He still hasn't seen it, not properly; but he'll bet everything he has that it's just as pretty as the rest of her.

“What are you thinking now?” she asks, voice high, trembling.

“Wanna touch you,” he rumbles out. “Wanna touch you so bad, Beth.”

She breathes in sharply at his words, but instead of checking her face for her reaction, Daryl closes his eyes. Feels the heft of his cock inside his jeans as it stirs further to life, to the point where he can't ignore it. Feels the blood pounding through his body, touching every artery, every pore; even the dead flesh of his back feels alive with it.

He feels alive.

“I'm here,” Beth says. Her hand brushes his cheek and his eyes slide open.

Her fear is gone now, evaporated. In its place is determination. In its place is something he isn't prepared to name.

“I'm here,” she says again. “Touch me.”

Daryl breathes in deeply, breathes in her. He straightens himself on his knees, and pushes her dress up her thighs.

She lifts herself briefly so he can get the fabric out from under her ass and then he's looking at her, long pale legs extending from sky-colored cotton briefs, and he wonders how he ever saw her as anything younger than this.

He thumbs the hem of her panties where they lie on the tops of her thighs, watching the small fringe bend back and forth with the pressure, watching goosebumps erupt on her skin. He breathes in and out through his teeth and shakes inside as the wet spot at the center of her grows before his eyes.

“You want me,” he says.

She laughs, then. Soft and sweet, tinkling in the air between them as she rests a hand over one of his, strokes it softly as he looks up at her.

“I told you that already, silly,” she says. Her tone is far more serious than her words or her face. She means him to take it to heart.

He doesn't know if he can, yet. Not yet. But he's learning.

He leans in and smells her.

The scent shivers through his nostrils in a tremble that spreads across his entire body. It's arousal; he knows it is, would know even without the time he's spent in seedy club bathrooms, on the other side of Merle's banging door. Beth's is musky and strong, like a more concentrated version of her, of the her he smelled as he hovered by her bedroom door, watching her make herself come.

Her palm slick and shining in the moonlight. Her hips snapping and circling and grinding into her hand. Her muffled cry as she strangled her own fingers, crushing them with the power of her climax.

He wants to be the one to feel that again. He wants to be the one to give it to her.

He tucks his nails into her panties, and her stroking hand stills.

“Can I?” he whispers.

She doesn't hesitate before she nods.

The smell only intensifies as he works her panties down her legs, but he forces himself not to look at her. Not yet. It feels like sacrilege to look at her too soon, before he's ready for it.

 _How silly you are,_ he hears in her voice. He'll never be ready. Not if he lives to 100.

Her panties pool around her ankles, and she lifts her feet out daintily, one after the other. Her legs have closed a little, bending in at the knee as if to shield herself.

He folds her panties carefully, setting them on the bed beside her. Her stomach tenses and untenses in the corner of his eye and he still hasn't looked.

He looks at her face instead. Some of her nerves are back, but there is also a kind of peace he doesn't expect. A resolve that he can breathe to make him strong too.

He looks.

His cock throbs. If he weren't on his knees already he'd fall over all over again.

He's never wanted a pussy like this.

He doesn't think he's ever really wanted pussy at all.

But the sight of _this_ pussy, of _hers_ —it tugs something inside him. Tugs it out, out through the bars of his ribs, squeezes it and twists it until it's unrecognizable, something new, something swirling and hypnotic that draws his hand towards her like she's reeling him in on a fishing rod, the hook attached to his pointer and middle fingers as they land at last on the lips of her cunt.

He strokes her first; spreads her second. Shakes violently as he touches the part of her he's dreamed about, the part she's never shared with anyone else.

And she's sharing it with him.

And the concept of being _first_ —the first to see her, to touch her, to smell her arousal and lean in close and watch a bead of liquid roll down her lips—it strikes him like nothing else. It makes him weak. It makes him worshipful.

She's his goddess, and he's here on his knees, making his offering.

And she offers herself right back—breathing in sharply the moment he touches her, muscles clenching, causing more liquid to ooze out of her. His touch is soft, at first, barely there—he's vaguely worried about hurting her, although he knows that's ridiculous, that he touched her much harder than this the last time and she did far from break—but she still reacts to it; and once he's able to drag his eyes away from her pussy and up to her face he sees how.

The first time he touched her had been desperate, close to violence in the way they came together, grappled for each other. He remembers her face as she came apart: twisted in confusion, almost in pain, as her body chased something she didn't know it wanted.

Her mouth hangs open, her tongue pressed against her lower lip as she stares at his fingers tracing her labia. Her eyes are even rounder than usual, round like dinner plates, and her blush is red and splotchy where it spreads across her cheeks and down her chest. Daryl thinks about asking her to pull her dress down—she isn't wearing a bra, he's almost certain of it now, that's how aroused she is—but decides against it; decides he likes the contrast of the flush with her blue dress, of how covered up and proper she is up top as he spreads the red lips of her cunt below.

And they are red, flushed full with blood and pulsing beneath his fingertips as he slides a finger between them, sucking in a breath as a sleeve of damp closes around him.

“Oh,” she moans softly, and he looks back up, meeting her eyes this time. They're hazy, unfocused, blue almost blasted with black and at the sight he presses harder.

He must catch the edge of her clit, for her eyes shoot open and she gives a short, breathy cry, clutching the edge of the mattress.

“Daryl,” she says. “Please don't tease me.”

“I'm not,” he says. “I don't mean to, I just...” He trails off, eyes drifting back to where she's soft and dripping, spread open for him. He takes his fingers and he spreads her farther so he can really see.

He's never looked at a pussy before, not like this—not with the expectation of doing something with it. And while the men in Merle's pornos and his pop's mags always seemed to know what to do, now that he's running on awe instead of desperation he feels lost.

One of Beth's hands falls into his line of vision, hesitating before he nods—as if she needs his permission to touch herself, christ—and falls over a nub near the top of her snatch, standing out red and swollen. She rubs over the hood for a moment, movements almost shy; then as he watches she begins to massage it in small circles. In moments her breathing has grown labored, her head lolling back, and Daryl feels a wave of heat suffuse his body.

“You like that?” he murmurs, keeping her spread as her hand speeds up, alternating between one and two fingers that quickly grow slick, slippery. He can't decide whether to watch her hand or her face so he alternates between them, flashing from the flood she's dripping onto his bed to the cavern of her mouth as it gapes, letting loose silent moans.

Daryl doesn't know what to do with his other hand so he brings it up to join the first, placing his palms flat on the creases of her thighs to push her legs wider and pull her lips apart, put pressure on her flushed labia with his thumbs. A high whine builds in her throat and she's rubbing herself madly and he's close enough he's sure she can feel his breath on her snatch, on the plush, swollen hole winking and widening for him—

She gives a sudden sharp cry, back arching and neck straining as a jet of liquid spurts out to splash against his face.

He jerks back on instinct, mouth falling open in shock. He stares at her clenching pussy and licks his lips and realizes that what he's tasting is her.

It isn't a pleasant taste. Musky and slightly bitter, it seems to linger in his mouth, suffusing his senses long after he swallows. He looks up at her similarly shocked face and licks his lips again.

It isn't pleasant. But he wants more.

“Shit, Daryl, I didn't know–, I didn't–“

“Shut up,” he says, and presses his mouth to her inner thigh.

She gasps as he breathes in deeply, laving her skin with his tongue, working up and down the crease to clean her methodically before switching to the other one. She doesn't seem to know what to do with the hand she had used to get herself off—her fingers are shining and sticky and before she can react he's surging up and catching them in his mouth.

“Oh _God_ –“

He grabs her wrist and moans, holding her in place as he sucks at her digits, her slim fingers that looked so elegant, so skilled as she played with herself. He's breathing heavily through his nose, almost grunting, and when his movements brush his chin against her pussy they both give cries.

He pulls off her fingers, leaving them spit shined and pruned, and he looks up into her astonished eyes.

“You...”

“I wanna eat your pussy.”

Her mouth drops open at his crudity, but he's too far gone to feel sorry—feels only the harsh pounding of his cock in his pants and her smooth skin beneath his hands, smells and tastes and drowns in her.

“Let me,” he says when she remains silent, pulling himself higher on his knees and spreading her legs farther. She's practically _sopping_ now, from the rush of her orgasm and her subsequent arousal and Daryl doesn't feel in control of himself anymore. “Please, Beth,” he whispers.

“I...” She trails off, shaking her head once. “If... if you want, I guess–“

He doesn't wait for her to finish.

Her gasp is strangled when his lips seal over her, licking greedily at the plain between her cunt and her clit as his hands slide up her stomach to bunch in the fabric of her dress. Where the taste of her cum had sparked something in him, her cunt itself turns it into a fire, and he almost doesn't recognize himself as he laps at her; not attempting any kind of technique, not going for finesse, just doing what he can to get as much of her as possible.

He's so wrapped up in her cunt and in her lips that he almost doesn't notice when she falls back, bouncing against the mattress and moaning like he's never heard her before, not in her bedroom, not in his, not like the whores in Merle's videos or the poor women who've found their ways to Daryl's bed—she's moaning like she doesn't know how to do anything else, like his licks and his sucks are building something in her body that defies any other sort of expression.

He doesn't realize how tight he's been winding her until she explodes again, letting out a short scream as she pulls her thighs over his shoulders and squeezes his head between them. She doesn't gush as much as last time but it's enough to make Daryl moan right along with her. He keeps sucking until she pushes him away.

She doesn't let him go far; uses his head along with the mattress to pull herself up, chest heaving and limbs trembling as she looks down on him in awe.

“Daryl... _Daryl_ –“

In her shaking lips and darting eyes he sees something of what he's just done, and he realizes how he must look—kneeling on his bedroom floor, covered in her juices, hair wild and face flushed with his own arousal.

_Look like a fucking cum dumpster, fucking slut, 's what you look like. Girl already has a cunt, don't need another one._

Daryl jerks as Merle's voice blasts into his head—realizes only quietly how mute he's been—and licks his lips again before standing, stumbling a little as his knees attempt to unlock.

Beth's hands remained on his body as he stood, and she holds him by the loops of his jeans as if in an attempt to anchor herself. She smoothes shaking hands down the flats of his hips, eyes locked on his aching erection where it curves beneath his jeans—

—and it _aches_. It feels like he's been hard for hours—and he realizes he has. For weeks he's been hard for this girl, and she never even knew it.

Or maybe she knew. Maybe she knew all along everything he wanted to do with her, how far it went beyond touching her, licking her, letting her bring him to his knees.

How he wants her on her knees too. Looking at him with those so big eyes the way they're looking at him now—practically caressing him, they burn so hot, set the metal of his zipper afire—looking at him, mouth open, waiting for his cock to thrust inside—

_Once in a lifetime chance to get one like this, baby brother. Lordy, look at them lips—bet she sucks like a hoover too. Imagine if we dolled her up a bit more, get some heft to those teeny tits, put some color on that pucker—just imagine, all that honey rubbin' all up on you—_

Daryl moves before she does, to lay his hands over hers.

“Stop.”

He can't look at her directly; sees only from the corner of his eye how confused she is, disoriented from her orgasm and his reaction.

“You don't want–“

“No,” he says.

“But I want to,” she says, trying to tug her hands free but failing to evade his grip. “You didn't let me last time, I want–“

“Please, Beth, just...”

Something in his tone must reach her, for her efforts to extricate herself slow, then stop. He forces himself to meet her eyes. She's still flushed, still wild-eyed, still confused as fuck—but in a few moments he sees resignation slip into her gaze and he can breathe again, even as he feels parts of him tear apart.

“Ok,” she says quietly. He lets go of her wrists, and her hands drop limply to rest beside her on the bed.

Her legs are still spread, he realizes; her cunt still there, gaping, open, inviting him in. She doesn't want to go all the way, and that's fine—he told her true, he doesn't have enough control right now to make it good for her anyway—but he could keep touching her there. Could take his dick out, let her stroke him. Slide his cock into her mouth between her honey sweet lips, feel her moans reverberate through his whole body. He could hold her and tease her clit with his head and spray his cum into her own dripping mess.

And his body wants it; god, his body wants her, strains towards her, takes in her tousled hair and her plush mouth and begs him to take her. And he could let himself. He knows he could, and he knows she—somehow, impossibly—wants him to.

But he can't take anymore. Not from her, not now, not with Merle in his head. Not with his dad close behind.

They don't have any place in this.

He doesn't look at her again as he goes into the bathroom.

* * *

He looks just like he imagined, just like Merle and Pop told him in his head.

He's sticky everywhere. Coating his cheeks, hanging in droplets from his hair, slicking his lips shiny and obscene. She's marked him in the flesh, now; after marking him and marking him in ways no one but himself could see, she's laid evidence of herself across his skin, soaked it into his pores. He's covered in her like he's been covered for weeks.

But she’s seen it now, with her own eyes. She’s seen him.

He's not ready to show her the rest of himself. Not when Merle can pipe up so clearly while her body lies pliant before him. Not when she's vulnerable and he's strong.

He can give her pleasure. He'll give her that the best he's able.

Maybe one day he'll feel ready to take it for himself.

It's not a victory. Not yet. But it's a start.

* * *

It takes him literally ten seconds after he gets his cock out before he's coming down the sink in thick ropey strands, in streams that go on and on.

He uses the Clorox he bought once on a whim to wipe it down afterwards. Splashes his face with water, gets the majority of her drying cum. He contemplates taking a shower, but he can hear Beth moving around in the bedroom. She's either waiting for him, or sneaking away while he's busy; and in either case being here is the wrong decision.

He takes a breath and exits the bathroom.

When he sees the room it all leaves in a rush.

The wet spot on his bedspread from where she'd been sitting is much larger, as if she'd gotten toweling from the kitchen to try and clean it. Her dress and panties are neatly folded on top of his dresser.

And she didn't leave. She's there, curled in his bed just like last time, in that same navy shirt.

She's lying on her side with her head supported on one arm, chin tucked down, brow scrunched as if she's thinking hard. He closes the bathroom door loud enough for her to hear and she looks up.

Her face smooths instantly, a small smile sliding across it as she looks at him.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.”

Daryl doesn't want to stop looking at her, but he does; clears his throat and walks to his dresser where she must have found the shirt. He pulls out a clean pair of boxers. He pauses, glancing behind himself to see Beth still watching.

His instincts scream at him to go into the bathroom to change.

But he figures he owes her.

Even so, he strips down quickly, turned away from her and hunching in on himself when his back and buttocks come into view. She's seen his back, but not lower down. It's just as bad there.

But when he turns around in his fresh boxers, feeling open and vulnerable, she doesn't look disgusted, or pitying. She doesn't look at him right away either, but lets her eyes linger on his thin underwear. He feels himself color, but keeps himself still until she's looked her fill. She looks up, and smiles again. She shifts closer to her side of the bed and pats the open space beside her.

Daryl swallows and walks to join her.

It's surreal, slipping into bed beside her—his bed, which has never had any other occupants save his mother when it belonged to her. He lies on his back, stiff and embarrassed, but she doesn't even try to keep the space between them—slips towards him the moment he settles to wrap herself around him, much like she had during her sleep.

Except this time there are no sweatpants, no panties between him and her cunt. She must have dried herself off, for she isn't sopping anymore; but she's still moist, and warm, and her press against his thigh leaves him flushing again.

If she notices his reaction, she doesn't show it; just snuggles into his chest, sighing contentedly.

“Goodnight, Daryl Dixon,” she murmurs.

No discussion, no complaint. No offense taken or given. Nothing for Merle to sneer at, for his pop to mock.

Their voices are quiet; her voice is all.

His name, and a wish.

_ Goodnight. _


	21. Whatever She Wants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mary :)

Unlike last time, it doesn't take him a long time to decipher what is happening to his body, what it has pressed against it.

He dreamed of her, after all. Not in acts, but in images. Walking down halls lined with her pictures. Reaching past the velvet ropes until the alarms blared and he took himself away.

So when he wakes, he knows what the warm wind against his neck and collarbone means. He knows what the pressure on his stomach is, the silky strands against his cheek. He knows and he doesn't let himself run from it.

“Mornin',” he rumbles, turning his face into her hair.

She freezes at his voice, but relaxes quickly; she shifts a little away from him so she can tilt up her chin and kiss his cheek.

“Not quite,” she says. “It's round 4:30. Didn't mean to wake you.”

“'S fine,” he says.

He feels her smile against his cheek before she returns her own to his shoulder. Her hand is still on his stomach; low on his stomach, dangerously low, but he lets that be. He feels too boneless to worry now, too warm and sated and full. Full of life, full of her.

“You alright?” Daryl asks. “Sleep at all?”

She nods against him, nuzzling him with her cheek. “Yeah, slept real good,” she says. She snorts out a soft laugh, puffing air against his collarbone. “Even though you snore.”

Daryl chuckles briefly. “Try sleeping in a room with Merle for twenty years,” he says. “Won't complain about me then.”

“Wasn't complaining.” Her thumb drifts across the underside of his belly button, sending a shiver up his spine. He swears he can hear the smile in her voice. “You're so warm,” she says.

“Sorry,” he grunts.

“I like it.” She presses a kiss to what her lips can reach, presses another one next to it. Daryl is lying down but he feels lightheaded, prepared to float away. “I'm usually cold. It's a nice change.”

Daryl can't imagine her cold; not when she bursts with such light, such warmth. But he supposes they all have those hidden cores, secreted away inside.

His hand is on her back, pressed to the soft fabric over her shoulder blades; the other inches across his own stomach, brushes the tips of her fingers with his. He feels her smile into his skin again and he breathes out, long and slow.

“Last night–“

“Was amazing,” Beth says. Daryl tilts his head to look at her, and her eyes are blazing blue. “I don't regret any of it, Daryl.”

Daryl swallows, brushes the bridge of her nose with the tip of his. “Me neither.”

That's a lie. He regrets that he couldn't get his cock out in front of her. Regrets that she said that she wanted it and he couldn't give it to her.

 _But why would she want it?_ he wonders. _Why does she want any of it?_

But she doesn't allow him any more time to think on it, because just as he's drawing in breath she leans forward to kiss him.

She tastes like morning breath, stale and musty and he can't get enough of it—he slides his hand up her cheek to tangle in the hair at her temple. She slept with it loose, and it's everywhere—spread across the pillow, spread across the bed, spread across him as she inches her body over so she's lying half on top of him. He spreads his other hand across her lower back, drawing her close, feeling the smoothness of her shaved mound on his hip.

Her breath catches when his hand circles from her back to her front, wedging between them and touching her where she had been touching him, below the belly button.

“How the fuck are you so tiny?”

Beth shrugs, giggling against his mouth. “Dunno,” she breathes. “Mama was always small.” She bites his lower lip softly, drawing a grunt from his throat. “Hmm, that hand seems like it's headed somewhere, Mr. Dixon.”

Daryl smirks, palming the jut of her hip. “You want something you ask for it, girl.”

“Demanding,” Beth murmurs, leaving his mouth to kiss his chin, his jaw. He breathes out heavily when she reaches the muscles of his neck, leaving little nips in her wake.

His fingers twitch against her, nails digging in briefly and making her gasp.

“What do you want, girl?”

She breathes out against him, washing his skin.

“Touch me again, Daryl,” she says.

He smirks, pressing a kiss to her ear. “I am touching you.”

Beth huffs, and suddenly all the warmth against Daryl's side vanishes. He blinks, looking to her, confused. She's sprawled out on her back, legs akimbo; he swallows when a shift of her thigh pulls at the fabric of her sleep shirt. He looks her the question, and she smiles, slow and soft.

“Now you aren't,” she says.

Daryl snorts, rolling to his knees and crawling between her legs. She watches him with heavy-lidded eyes, fully content to watch him do the work.

And he'll do it. She knows he will, and he knows he will, because anything else isn't an option.

For a woman who'd only been touched for the second time in her life the night before, her legs fall open surprisingly willingly when his fingers brush her knees. She bites her lip and stretches as his eyes roam up and down her body. He thumbs the material of the shirt, feeling the familiar fabric, the warmth it's gathered from her skin.

“Do you–, do you want it off?”

Daryl looks up, and now Beth looks more like he expects her to—a little nervous, a little unsure, picking at the sheets with twitchy fingers.

“If you want,” Daryl says.

“I asked what _you_ want.”

Daryl pauses, looking at her. “That don't matter,” he says.

“Daryl,” she says. He tries to avoid her gaze, but she's implacable; no matter where he looks, she's the center of everything. She goes up to her elbows, drawing closer. “I want you to get what you want.” She reaches out for one of his hands, holds it sweetly. “You're here with me. And I know that was hard.” She bites her lip. “I don't know exactly why. But I want to.” She squeezes his hand, pulls it up and presses it to her stomach. He can see the lines of her better now, he realizes; the sun is rising. “You're here with me,” she says again. “Be here.”

Daryl swallows, looking at their hands together, how small she looks against him. How fragile.

 _She wants it,_ the voices whisper. He doesn't know which of them belong to him.

“I'm here,” he says. He ducks his chin, licks his lips. Looks at the apex of her thighs, hidden in the shadows. “Just... pull it up. A little.”

That's not what he wants, not really. He wants it off of her. He wants her spread before him, lush and decadent, pale skin for acres and limbs for miles and the spirals of her nipples stretched flat against her chest. He wants to see her, all of her, all for him.

But he can see her belly button, small and cute in the middle of her toned stomach. He can see the lines of her waist, more curved than he expects, flaring out to generous hips. He sees her long arms and her long legs and her pussy in between, already shimmering in anticipation.

He can take that. It's enough for now.

He sighs at the sight of her, glancing at her face—a little nervous again, but not worryingly so—and reaches out to lay a hand against her thigh, brush a thumb against her pouting lips.

Beth lets out a shuddering breath at the touch, arching her back a little, scrunching her hands in the fabric under her breasts. Her eyes are closed, her breathing deep.

Daryl drags in his own deep breath, and touches her again.

Her thighs are spread enough that her pussy lips don't quite touch, and that gap between them is intoxicating. He can't stop moving his thumb up and down, barely touching, watching her bare flesh swell and move with him.

 _She must have shaved yesterday,_ he thinks, drifting his finger across her smooth skin, tugging a little so he can see the pebbles of her shorn hair.

“You didn't have to do that,” he murmurs.

“Do what?” she asks. She sounds utterly distracted by his touch, sending a shot of pride zipping through his body.

“Shave,” he says.

She squirms a little, thighs tensing and releasing and he sees _all_ of it.

“I thought you'd like it. Like it better,” she says.

Daryl snorts. “Girl, I look like the kinda guy who cares about that shit?”

“I dunno,” she says, an edge of defensiveness in her voice. “It's just what Maggie said.”

Daryl's head jerks up. “You asked­–“

“Not about you. It was a while ago. When Theo was bugging me.” She's blushing deeply now. Her fingers pluck distractedly at the bedspread. She giggles shortly. “I didn't wanna shave it though. I was worried how it'd grow back, you know. It's one of the reasons I never let him touch me; I thought he'd think it was gross.” she says.

“Theo's a fucking idiot,” Daryl growls, finally moving his hand across her mound, pressing the heel of his palm against her.

Beth draws in a sharp breath, shifting restlessly. “I'll keep that in mind,” she breathes.

“What else did Theo want?”

Her pussy flutters as she tenses in confusion.

“What?”

“What did he want?”

His hand begins a rolling motion against her. She moans again, short, breathy. He looks at her.

“I–, I dunno,” she says, head dropping back a little as Daryl spreads her. “What guys want, I guess. Blow jobs and whatever.” Daryl presses his thumb to her clit, and her breath stutters. “I didn't... I wasn't ready. He tried to touch me at that party, before you came, and I slapped him.”

Daryl snorts, watching the way the light plays with the moisture on her skin, watching himself play with her. “Deserved it,” he says.

“Sure did.” Beth sighs as Daryl moves his fingers down, feeling the plush of her inner lips, the sticky heat of her creases. “I wasn't ready, and even if I was, I dunno. I didn't feel safe with him.”

Daryl pauses, looking at her. “You thought he'd–“

“No, no. Not that, no.” Beth pushes some hair back from her face, shifting on the pillow. “I just... it's more than that. I always felt like I had to watch myself with him. Like I'd make a wrong move and he'd stop liking me, or he'd think I was dumb.” Beth pauses, staring at him. He can't look away. “I don't feel like that with you,” she says.

Daryl swallows. His fingers have reached her entrance, right above where the curves of her asscheeks begin. The muscles there shudder a little as he brushes it. His fingers are close to dripping.

“Should,” he says.

“Well. We aren't doing much that we should, are we?”

Daryl looks at her pussy. Her _pussy_ , his fingers in her pussy, his fingers gnarled and scarred and her body fresh and clean.

She's right. They passed “should” a long time ago.

He closes his eyes for a moment. Sighs out slowly. Soaks in the scent of her, her presence in the room.

He rests his free hand on her knee, rubs his thumb against skin. She's sweating a little, and his finger sticks to her, dragging along its journey.

He traces his fingers around her entrance. Swallows as she tilts her hips, inviting him in. He doesn't have to look to know her eyes are intent on his face.

She's leaking like a faucet now. He slides his finger inside.

She whimpers softly as he sinks deeper and deeper, holding his breath as her walls contract and release around him. She feels like she did the first time he fingered her, but looser, wetter, more relaxed, and the realization that this means she's more turned on drags a groan from his own throat.

His finger bottoms out inside her and he uses his other hand to stroke her knee, the crease of her thigh, run across her labia as she shifts her hips restlessly.

“Daryl,” she moans, low and throaty.

“Feels good?” he asks, drawing the finger out with a twist, sinking in again.

Beth doesn't reply, choosing instead to arch her back, plant her feet on the mattress so she can press back against him. Her stomach muscles contract and release with his movements as he continues to thrust inside her, holding his breath as the path grows even slicker.

“Daryl, another, another, please–“

Her breath is getting heavier as he adds a finger, watching in fascination as her body accepts it with ease, liquid squeezing out between and around his digits to drip down his wrist. His cock is aching again and he knows his hard on is visible beneath his thin shorts, but that barely worries him—all he sees is Beth Greene's cunt and Beth Greene's face and Beth Greene's body writhing on his fingers.

“Do it, just...”

“What?” Daryl asks, hardly recognizing his own voice, hardly knowing himself as he presses his hand on her thigh to spread her wider, lean closer and watch her tremble as he scissors his fingers.

“Just get my­–, it's so close, please–“

“Tell me,” Daryl murmurs, watching her face as her eyes blink at him desperately.

“Like this,” she says, raising her hand and crooking her fingers at him.

Daryl watches her make the motion a few times, committing it to memory, before trying it himself.

Her walls stretch so wonderfully around him that he can barely breathe as he strokes her, relishing the slimy wet, wishing his tongue were long enough to reach this deep inside her, lick the liquids from her insides and taste her most secret parts—

Then he hits something different—something rough, something spongy—and her hips arc off the bed.

“There!” she gasps, “And my clit, touch it, please–“

He does as she asks, bringing his other hand to the nub she had worked the night before while dragging his fingers across that rough patch inside her.

He watches in nothing less than fascination as she _writhes_ —squeezing down on his fingers and thrusting into his touch on her clit, her own hands fisted in the sheets as she forgets herself utterly.

Her face is a vision as she comes—squeezed tight with mouth open and nostrils flaring, cords standing out in her neck as she twists, clamping her thighs around his hands as her hips piston against him.

He strokes her through it, still caught in the hypnosis of the motion, continuing to massage that place inside her until her hands come down to push him away.

They're silent for a while after that—Daryl sitting between her spread open legs, looking at her as she melts into the mattress, one hand on her bare stomach, the other between her breasts like she's taking an oath. He counts the rises and falls of her chest and feels like he's swearing something himself—swearing on her, on her body, on the up-down of her breaths, to make her feel like this every moment he's able. Every day of his life, if he can.

It's become the rest of his life already. The miracle of her, in his bed, on his fingers—he's greedy for it. Grasping for it, like that place inside her that she told him how to reach, and he knows then that whatever this girl asks for in this moment, he'll give her.

It takes her a long time to open her eyes, lids fluttering, gaze unfocused until it catches on his face, holds, draws his breath from his body from the way it shines.

“You're good at that,” she whispers.

Daryl shrugs, wiping his hands absently on the sheets. “Just did what you told me.”

She grins, and he feels it in his own teeth, the force, the shine of it.

“Well. It’s something a girl could get used to.”

* * *

He stares at the door for almost an hour after she leaves. Not even thinking. Sitting. Feeling the chair beneath his ass, the cushion against his back, the air flowing in and out of his lungs. The burn of his dick is rearing back up in her absence—but not with enough violence to necessitate immediate action. He's fine, for now. Close to it.

He can still smell her on his fingers. He washed his hands before making breakfast—eggs again, again while Beth showered—but the smell is still there, wafting through his senses when he brings the digits beneath his nose, breathes her in. He's sure his sheets smell like her too. And he knows the etiquette is to wash the sheets every time you have sex—that's what Eric had intimated, when he, like usual, told Daryl a little too much—but he doubts he'll be able to bring himself to do it. At least not until she comes again.

She's coming again. She wants to come again. She left him at the door with a kiss and a whisper to call her and a hand firm and possessive on his hip and she wants to come again.

He's so struck by the wording of that thought that he sits there for a little longer.

Eventually he rises. Tidies up, vacuums, takes his own shower, washes his spunk once more down the drain. Lays his naked body on the bed, curled around the ghost of her body heat, eyes closed and breathing in where her cum had dried on the sheets. Burying his face in the pillow, smelling the specter of her hair. Lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, a smile playing on his lips.

She wants to come again. She wants him to _make her_ come again.

Daryl isn't used to sleeping without nightmares. But with that thought—the remnants of her on his fingers, in his bed, in his thoughts, spread out and smiling—well.

Someday soon, he just might be able to.


	22. Kept On The Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl has gotten over the first hurdle, but there are more reckonings to face—from himself more than from Beth. But for the first time in his life, he feels willing to face them. Strong enough to. And he isn't going to do it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize so heartily for how horrible I've been about replying to messages on this story. There really is no excuse; just know that I read and appreciate every single one, and they're one of the main reasons why I'm still writing this.
> 
> I do want to warn you that updates are going to be pretty sporadic. I care enough about this story that I only want to work on it when I can give it my full attention, but unfortunately, I have a very busy semester, so those chances are few and far between. I should have some time to work on it this Saturday, though; after that we'll see.
> 
> Mostly, thank you for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoy the chapter :)
> 
> WARNING: Mentions of suicidal thoughts.

He wakes up before dawn the next morning and he rides.

He doesn't know where the compunction comes from. It's been a long time since he's ridden a bike—since before Merle left, at least—but something in him seems to need it; need the wind against his face, the force of gravity weighty like stone as he takes the turns, hand strong and sure on the throttle.

Here was another thing Merle taught him. Well, not so much taught him as plopped him on the back of a Harley and told him what button to press. It's a miracle he survived his first ride. But now it's easy as breathing to unlatch the bike from the shed he's left it in for the past year; easy to check the bits and pieces, be sure it won't break down or explode the moment he hits the road. He pulls on the leathers he jacked from the dealership and slides on the helmet his ma heckled him into buying and eases onto the road and takes off.

It isn't like anything else he's ever done, riding the bike. Being with Beth might be close to it; but there's some quality to this specific thrill, the thrum of the engine between his thighs and the roar of the air rushing by his face that empties him; cuts him open and hollows him out and leaves only the road and the wind and him, whatever that him might be. The him that was never cut by fist or belt. The him he might have been, maybe.

He never used to think about might have beens. Never saw the point of it. Life was how life was and if that life was shitty there was nothing he could do about it. Just hang on the best he could. Get through the day. Ignore the thoughts that rocked through his brain now and then, about the worthlessness of it all, how he's lived through 35 years of days like these with no indication that there'll be anything more than this.

For so long his mother had been everything. Propping her on her side when she passed out after drinking too much, keeping an ear open in the middle of the night for when she needed help stumbling to the bathroom, making her coffee and bowls of cereal and pretending he didn't see the bottle she began sipping from as soon as she thought his back was turned. They had so many fights about that—her and her bottles and the pretense that he didn't know what she was doing to herself, doing to them. How many times she screamed at him to leave if she was such a burden, how many times he had to wrestle the suitcases out of her hands as she tried to pack up and go. For his own good, she said. She drank for his own good, because if she didn't she would kill herself and it'd be him having to deal with the funeral.

Merle might have paid for that at least, if it happened on a week he was flush. Daryl always tried to hide those weeks from his ma, just in case. Hid a lot from her, and from Merle. Never showed them the scars Pop put on his back when Merle was gone and his ma too somnolent to be any fun. The times when he was gunning for Eleanor and Daryl got in his way instead.

Sometimes he woke up in his and Merle's piss soaked bed or whatever shit hole they were staying in and thought idly about what it would take to kill himself. If he would go through with it, what he'd use. What would be the thing to drive him to it, if he'd already survived so much.

But he had Ma. Even before she burned the house, even before she became bed-bound, he had Ma. And no matter how much she begged him to, he'd never leave her.

And now she's left him.

He doesn't make the decision to turn towards the farm, but he finds himself on the long dirt drive anyway, slowing down so the engine doesn't roar so loudly as he approaches the house, idles finally to a stop. Looks at the white house with its delicate shutters and peaceful eaves and thinks about how sinister it looked the night Merle came and his ma looked at him like a ghost.

The sun is on its way to fully rising, tipping the horizon in gold and orange, creating shadows that crawl across the long grass, shiver along his boots and thighs. On a weekday the family would be up by now, he guesses; at least Beth and Hershel would. He doesn't know what schedule his ma keeps now that she has someone she cares to cater to.

It takes him several moments to notice the flutter of curtains on the second floor, the shadow of a figure stepping into the frame. When he looks up and finds her he suspects she's been watching him for a long time.

She's far away and the sun is in his eyes, but he can see her hair is down; can see she's wearing a light colored sleep-shirt, or nightgown, or—he doesn't know what she sleeps in. He's only ever seen her sleep in his own shirts and something about that makes him sad even as he feels himself filling against the rumbling engine.

She's leaning on the windowpane, he can see that much; head tilted and fingertips resting lightly on the glass as she watches him watching her. He wonders what she would do if he scaled the side of the house, joined her at her window. He could do it—he's no parkour artist, but he's strong enough to lift himself over the eaves, step across the slats to join her. Would she warn him away, or open the window and let him in? He pictures himself crawling through, crowding her space; pulling her close and kissing her mouth and thumbing at the nipples pressing so sweetly through her shirt.

He wants it with an ache that still doesn't cease to frighten him. He knows what happens when he wants things. He's known it for almost all of his 35 years.

It doesn't stop him from wanting anyway.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he snaps back to the present; fumbles for the device and flips it open.

_wrong time of day for a booty call, isn't it?_

Daryl snorts despite himself; looks up, and even from afar he imagines he can see her smiling. Biting her lip, maybe. Teasing him.

He wonders how to reply. Wonders if she wants him witty, or sexy, a gentleman. Wonders if that was her own way of telling him she wants him here.

 _just riding_ , he types. He pauses, heart thumping, finger hovering over send. He closes his eyes, opens them. Types: _wanna see you_.

Her reply is almost instantaneous.

_daddy and ur mom will b gone later. come then?_

His heart thumps almost painfully in his chest. She's inviting him to her house. Her empty house. He can't imagine it's for sex, not when anyone could come home any moment. She wants to see him. Just wants to see him. And somehow that feels heavier to him than any alternative.

 _got work,_ he replies. _after?_

The sun has moved so it is not so directly in his face, and he can make out more of her features; her shirt is pale pink, and her smile bright.

He doesn't need to read his phone to know her answer.

He'll be back. He's coming back. She _wants_ him back.

That's enough for now. After 35 years, that's enough.

* * *

He walks into the office and nearly walks right back out again.

Aaron's waiting for him. Doing paperwork, yes, preparing for the day, but very much with an air of suspense. As soon as he sees Daryl he's taking his glasses off and sitting back and raising his eyebrows in expectation.

“What?” Daryl grunts.

Aaron's eyebrows raise still higher and Daryl looks away from him, focusing on making his way across the room.

“I think you know _what_ , Daryl.”

“Don't know shit,” Daryl grumbles.

“Uh-huh.” There's silence for a few moments as Daryl pretends to read his schedule, making a show of flipping through the leafs. He stares at the pages but doesn't read them, too tense, too worried about what Aaron is about to say. “You know Eric wanted to come in today to interrogate you?” Aaron says. “I talked him out of it. So I'm pretty sure you owe me.”

“Don't know what you're talking about,” Daryl mutters.

“Daryl,” Aaron says. Daryl glances at him. His expression has softened into something a little less expectant, yet no less curious. “I have to tell Eric _something_.”

Daryl snorts, rubbing at his nose. “You're damn whipped, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Aaron says without hesitation. “I think you are too.” Daryl glares. Aaron doesn't even flinch. “Did you enjoy the party at least?”

Daryl shrugs, mutters, “Was fine.”

“A ringing endorsement, coming from you.”

Daryl snorts, thumbing the paper in his hands. It's strange, this urge to silence—because he wants to tell Aaron. He _wants_ to. He rarely finds himself wanting to open his mouth, but here he feels some compulsion to find the words and spill them out.

But what words are there for the way Beth's pussy spread under his hands? The way she looked at him after he got her off, like he had been the arbiter of her very own miracle? Waking up curled around her, her hair in his face, lips on his chest, the two of them wrapped in a closeness Daryl doesn't think he's felt since the womb?

It was more than physical touch, although it isn't like Daryl's gotten that in spades either. It's what she said. He doesn't have to watch himself. He might make a wrong move—he _will_ , fucking hell he will—but she's stuck with him so far. After all the horrible things he's done to her, she's stayed. That means something. It has to.

_I don't feel like that with you._

And now she's invited him to the farm. To her empty house, large and old and creaking with the spirits of her ancestors trod into the well-worn floors. Is letting him continue the fantasy that he can be with her. That this is something that can last.

Daryl knows that Aaron is watching him but he doesn't look up yet—keeps flipping through the schedule, back and forth, back and forth, imagining that she's rocking with him.

“I couldn't...” Daryl swallows, tries again. “We didn't... I touched her.” He doesn't know if his face has ever felt this hot, but it's like a flood: he's started, and it's not going to stop. “Went to my place and we... I touched her.” He licks his lips, tries to work some moisture into his throat. “She's just... dunno. Never felt nothing like it.”

“It was a good night, then?”

He thinks of her flushed face on a mattress of her hair; her laughing face so close, how certain she was that she'd be able to get him into that bed. He doesn't want to smile, but his mouth doesn't want to listen, and he feels the twitching of his lips in his fingertips.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. It was good.”

Aaron doesn't respond for several long moments. Daryl glances up through his bangs and finds his friend watching him with the most peculiar look on his face.

“What?” Daryl grunts.

Aaron shrugs. His grin, he doesn't attempt to temper. “I'm proud of you.”

“Stop,” Daryl mutters.

“I mean it.” Aaron leans forward, eyes intent enough that Daryl can't quite make himself look away. “You didn't think you could do it, but it's something you wanted. And you went after it. That's brave.” Aaron holds his gaze, calm and unwavering. “I'm proud of you.”

Daryl looks down. Glides his eyes across the order forms. Thinks of her holding onto him when everything was threatening to fall apart.

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “Yeah. Guess I am too.”

* * *

The farm is just as quiet as it was before when he returns. The shadows have shortened, the white of the house less tinged with the hues of dawn. Hershel's broke-down truck is still in the driveway, but the other vehicles are gone, and it appears it's as she said it would be—there's no one. No one there but the two of them.

He takes his truck this time; figures it would be less to explain away if Hershel or his ma come home early. And if Beth wants to go somewhere... she doesn't seem like the kind of girl to have been on a bike before, although he's long learned not to assume with her. And he likes having her in his truck. Likes how the smell of her fills the small cab, the way she looks so small and sweet against the large window. Brings up memories, too; the night after that house party when all was abandon and fading adrenaline; to and from the Moonshiner, to and from Aaron's party. Wearing a dress each time, he realizes—dresses that bared her knees when she squirmed in the ancient seat, looking for a comfortable position, pulled up her thighs as she lost awareness of herself, lost herself in the drive. He would like to have her there again.

He thinks of her on his bike, though. The same rush he felt this morning, the wind and the torque and the rumbling engine, but with her warmth sprawled like a blanket across his back; hands small and tight and distracting, gripping his abdomen, tightening on the turns, her breath in his ear laughing or just breathing but always dancing with the wind.

He feels a little dizzy with his imaginings, and like before he lingers; stands by the truck looking at the large house. Larger than the house his ma burned and the trailer combined. Older than either of their lives, something that's seen more than the human eye can imagine.

He told Merle once when they were children not to cuss so loud, cause the walls were listening and would tell Ma. Merle cuffed him across the ear and laughed for days about it—at the thought of Ma caring about his mouth as much as at Daryl's insistence that the walls were listening. But it's a feeling Daryl's never been quite able to shake, when he finds himself somewhere old. Somewhere that hardship has been too.

He feels the house looking down at him, judging his worth to enter his doors; and this time when he sees a curtain twitch he turns on his heel and heads for the barn, feet quiet and slow in the afternoon light.

He feels some of his trepidation leech away as he enters the structure. He's never spent much time with horses in particular, but they have the same wild scent the woods do sometimes; heady and thick, filling his nostrils as he breathes deep. It's peaceful here, too; the horses stir in their stalls when he enters, flaring their nostrils at his unfamiliar scent, but otherwise leave him be.

He leans his head against one of the beams standing tall and proud beneath the roof; closes his eyes and listens to the natural sounds around him. The horses may be domesticated, but they're _natural_ —won't ask him questions he can't answer, won't judge him for the redneck trash he is, won't make him feel like he's twelve years old again at the end of a belt. He doesn't know what in the sight of the house stirred it up, but his scars are tingling like they do sometimes; the hint of sensation prickling at the dead flesh, like a million ants trapped beneath the skin, looking for a way to pour out and drown him.

“Daryl?”

He doesn't tense like he expects to. He feels like he should, but he doesn't. Just leans more heavily against the beam, breathes in deeply, imagines he can smell her beneath the overwhelming scent of horse. Beneath it, and rising.

Fingertips on his back, over the worst of the scars. He only knows they're there because of the way the touch pulls at his shirt.

He doesn't respond to her; breathes in again, smells her more strongly, or makes himself believe that he does; that her presence can alter the air, the very flow of gravity.

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Just thinking.”

“A dangerous pastime.”

Daryl snorts. “You're full of references these days, ain't you?”

He feels her stepping closer, and then she's touching him beyond the scar; her whole body pressed to his back, lightly, with a question, but there, hovering between the span of his shoulders.

“Keeps you entertained, though, right?”

“Hmm.” Daryl turns his head, catches strands of blonde and a pale forehead. Beth leans sideways and he can see more of her, her soft pink face. She's flushed, easily noticeable through her pale skin. From this close he can see the powder she uses to cover the bumps on her chin. There is a light layer of mascara on her eyelashes, making the blue gleam.

He nearly shivers, but resists. Her hands are on his sides and she'd be able to feel it, and he doesn't want that.

“Wanna come inside anytime soon?” she asks. He doesn't answer. “C'mon,” Beth says. She's growing bolder, pushing herself more firmly against him. He closes his eyes at the feel of her through his shirt, breathing as slow and deep as he can, containing himself. She fits so nicely against him, her belly soft on his ass, and he wonders what this would feel like if they were naked.

He wishes he'd gotten her naked. Spread her out, looked his fill, damn the niggle in his gut saying it ain't right. Gotten himself naked too, rolled with her like they were children, playing in the grass.

She's young, so much younger than him, but he suspects he's far more of a child than she is.

“Think I'd rather stay here,” he says. He brings a hand up to cover hers on his waist. Her breath hitches, and his face warms in turn. Entwining her fingers with his, she slides her hand further around to touch his belly, pressing harder when she feels the muscles tighten.

“I get that,” she says; almost shyly, he thinks, and what a thought that is; Beth Greene shy with her whole body wrapped around him in the light of the barn, little breasts pressed to his back while her hand kneads his stomach. A steady pulsing is building in the pit of his abdomen, so familiar at this point and yet somehow less urgent than usual, now that she's actually touching him, that he's touched her.

She stretches up on her tiptoes, pressing her breasts even tighter against him as she reaches to kiss the base of his neck; first just a brush of lips, and then bolder, her tongue laving briefly before she pulls away. Again, shy; and he's endeared even as he's discomfited. He doesn't want this eggshell walking. He wants her teasing him. Pushing him. Soft and easy like it was at the beginning.

It will take a bit, but he thinks they might be getting there.

He turns in her arms, enjoys the feeling of her hands dragging at his clothing as they remain still, settle on his side and his back when he completes his turn.

She's pretty. She's so pretty, the light filtering through the haylofts softening her features, making her glow. She peers at him through her eyelashes, then ducks her head, looks at their feet standing so close together.

He wants her. He wants her so badly, all of her, and where she's looking she must notice. He sees her breath hitch as she looks down at him, his dick hardening in his jeans.

She looks up at him, eyelids fluttering, and doesn't say a word; just presses herself tighter into him, tight enough that he knows she feels it. He can feel her, so long and strong and soft, and it's going to be hell to walk out of here but with her eyes on him like this it might be worth it.

“Come inside?” she murmurs.

He nods. When she curls her hand in his he doesn't pull away.

 


	23. How Lucky We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl spends some time in Beth's space, and touches, whether he knows it or not, on some of Beth's own ragged edges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I'll have time to work on this this weekend, unfortunately, but hopefully the next chapter won't be too long from now! Thanks to everyone for sticking it out :)

She walks a little ahead of him, leading the way to the house like he's some dog on a leash. It makes him bristle for a moment, that thought, but following through with it would make him drop her hand and he doesn't want that. God, he doesn't want that.

She doesn't let go of him until they're inside, and even then she stays close; glancing over her shoulder every few moments as if she isn't sure he would know to follow her. He trails her steps to the living room and when she sinks into the sofa, sitting sideways against the arm and pulling her knees to her chest, he follows suit, albeit with his feet on the floor. Her eyes are intent on his face and he looks away, uncomfortable. Means to look around the room but his gaze falls on her body instead. She looks like she she hasn't been outside much today; wears a cardigan over a tee or a tank, a pair of soft-looking lounge-pants. Her feet are covered only by socks and he realized she walked all the way to the barn practically bare-footed.

“Where the fuck are your shoes?” he asks.

His gaze jumps up to meet hers, and where before it had been intent and unreadable, now it seems simply baffled.

“What?”

“You ain't...” he pauses, trailing off, realizing how strange he sounds. He ducks his head, bringing a nail to his mouth. “Gonna get fucking tetanus or something.”

There are a few moments when the only sound is his teeth on his nail, then she breathes out a laugh. “I have all my shots, Daryl.”

“Still,” he mutters. “Fucking dumb.”

He regrets the words as soon as he says them; but when he chances a glance at her, she doesn't seem upset; is looking at him with that inscrutable look again, head tilted, knees tight under her chin.

“Sorry,” she says.

He shrugs. “Ain't important,” he says.

“It is, or you wouldn't have said it.” She tilts her head, eyes squinting a little. “Are you worried about me getting hurt, Daryl Dixon?”

“No,” he says too quickly. He knows he says it too quickly, but her smile is spreading before he can duck his head and that distracts him from his embarrassment. “Just... don't be an idiot.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” she says. She almost sounds sincere.

Daryl snorts softly—at the absurdity of the conversation, the absurdity of being here, the absurdity that even in this awkwardness he's finding himself sliding his eyes down the line of her neck, seeking the indent her pants would make against her pussy lips if they were pulled tight enough. He can't stop wanting her and it frightens him but there's something nice about it. Something new, and grown.

He grunts, looking around the room. “Why'd you ask me here, then?”

He sees her shrug out of the corner of his eye. “Wanted to see you,” she says. She uncurls one of her legs, and he watches in something like fascination as her foot extends to poke him in the thigh. “Didn't want you ignoring me again.”

“Ain't gonna,” Daryl says, distracted by the small foot she's left resting against him, the arch of her leg, so long from her foot and back into her body. As he watches she wiggles her toes, and he looks up to see her grinning at him.

“See something you like?”

Daryl snorts, trying not to second guess himself as he brings a hand to rest on her ankle, rub his thumb against the skin just above her sock.

Beth's breath hitches and Daryl forces himself not to look up. He's not here for sex. He doesn't think she'd invite him here for sex. But nevertheless, the thought of his touch turning her on gets his blood boiling, and seeing that effect on her... he'd take her right here on this couch if he could. Finger her until she comes and watch her liquids stain the sofa that her family sits on to watch TV. He breathes in deeply, shifting in his seat. He belatedly hopes she doesn't notice, but he knows—he's being nothing if not obvious. He's spent a lifetime learning how to hide his emotions and here she's split him open like a book once bound with cobwebs.

She's slid her foot farther into his lap, and after a moment's hesitation he takes the whole thing in his hand—measures the soft weight against his palm, feels the curve of her arch, the fabric of her sock where it thins over her big toe. She sighs softly and he can't help chancing a glance up, just in case he's doing something wrong—

She doesn't look turned on. Well, she does; he sees the way her cheeks flush, her chest, how the blue in her eyes is bleeding towards black. But more than that, she looks relaxed, draped bonelessly across the arm of the sofa, head resting on the cushion and eyes half-closed as she watches him, gaze flicking from his hands to his face to his chest to his lap—

And somehow that doesn't bother him. He shifts in his seat again, tries to ease the press against his zipper; but he doesn't mind her watching. Doesn't mind that it's happening. He's holding her delicate foot in one large hand and looking at her so soft and flushed and, yeah. Yeah, he wants her. He can't believe that there was a time when he didn't.

It spreads something else through his chest, something warm and content, and when he brings his other hand to her foot, presses his thumbs against her arch and she sighs, breathy and long—he thinks of something dangerous. He thinks of the rest of the family here, sitting, laughing, not oblivious to Daryl's hands on their girl, but not opposed to it either. It would _be_. It would just be.

The thought nearly makes him pull his touch away, but she sighs again, arching her back like a cat and sliding down a little to get more comfortable and press her foot more firmly into his hold. And he complies. Puts more pressure into his thumbs on her arch, rolls them rhythmically and spreading them outwards. He's never given a foot massage in his life—feels a little ridiculous doing so—but it doesn't seem too hard to figure out. She, at least, seems to enjoy it.

“Where'd they go, then?” Daryl asks.

Beth cracks one eye open; seems to need a moment to refocus and understand what he's asking. “Meeting with the florist, I think,” Beth says. “Then lunch in town. Figure we got a few hours.”

“To do what?”

The words slip from Daryl's mouth before he can contain them, and he blushes fiercely—but she merely smiles, soft and sleepy.

“Whatever you want,” she says.

Daryl look down at that; looks at where he's working her toes now, small and delicate even inside her sock. Looks at his hands and presses the heels of them to the heel of her foot and leaves them there, pressure firm and gentle.

“Can I see your room?” he asks.

From the way she tenses, she seems surprised by the request; he's surprised himself too. He knew it was something he wanted, but never thought he'd have the wherewithal to ask. And now he's gone and done just that and he doesn’t dare lift his eyes to see her reaction.

“Yeah,” she says. Daryl glances at her through his bangs. She's looking at him in that searching way she does, like she suspects he's always on the cusp of saying something more. Of explaining himself to her, as far as he can. He wishes he could, sometimes.

But now her foot is drawing away—reluctantly, he thinks, although that could just be wishful thinking—and she's swinging her legs off the sofa to stand. She reaches a hand towards him. He looks at it for a moment—delicate, too, like her foot, wrist jingling with a collection of bracelets, plastic like the kind she might have collected in childhood—before taking it; using it and its warmth and its softness to urge himself off the sofa and follow her up the stairs.

Beth is very quiet, as if she too is listening to the thundering of his heart, feeling the way he tenses with each step they take. For he knows this climb, and she doesn't know that, and he begins to wonder whether this was a very bad idea.

He focuses on the the tickle of her bracelets against his wrist, the warmth of her hand in his, the tingle that simple touch sends through his body. Feels his boots heavy on the landing as they turn to the first door at the top of the stairs, that familiar ladybug, its winning smile, Beth's face turned to him with a flush almost as deep.

“Mama worked at a daycare for a while,” Beth says. They've stopped moving, are standing by the closed door, hands still clasped. “I helped out, when she got sick. Volunteered after school and stuff.”

Daryl nods, trying not to shift too nervously. Beth is looking at him like she expects something and seems disappointed when she doesn't get it and Daryl's entire skin clenches with the shame of that.

“The kids were nice,” Beth says. She pauses again, hand tight in Daryl's. She's shaking a little; just a small tremor in her hand, but it makes her feel so delicate to him, like a baby bird shuddering inside its downy coat. Daryl doesn't know what brought this emotion on so he does what he can—squeezes her hand as tight as possible, tight until the bones creak and she looks up at him. He can't quite meet her eyes, but what he sees is shimmering.

She lets go of his hand to step forward and push the door open.

It doesn't smack him in the face like he feared it would. The room looks different enough in daylight, smells different enough without her musk in the air, that he can look at it as just a room and not the portal that led him to her hands and her body and her cunt. He tracks her silently with his eyes as she walks to the bed, gathers a pair of panties and a bra in her hand to shove beneath the covers, as if to prevent him from seeing them. She smooths down the comforter, already tucked neatly around the bed, made as carefully as he's seen in hotel advertisements. It's white, too, like in hotels; but at the head of the bed are a pile of throw pillows, no two alike. He hadn't noticed them the night he came here but thinking on it now he remembers them, piled like a dark avalanche above her tossing head.

He looks at the rest of the room. It's what he expected, and yet it isn't. The furniture aside from the bed all look like a matched set—desk, dresser, bookshelf, wood painted a delicate pink that stands out from the white of the walls. The space is full, but not cluttered; it feels just big enough to contain everything inside it.

He very consciously turns away from Beth to wander down the wall he hadn't been able to see from the doorway. The desk is covered in piles of paper that look like she'd tried to neaten them up at some point; he glances at them, sees a mixture of worksheets and her own hand-written notes on looseleaf paper, the same color-coded script he remembers from that time he sat with her in the kitchen. He doesn't recognize most of the books on her bookshelf, which isn't surprising, considering he's never been a great reader; Merle would be able to tell him what her taste is, who Le Guin and Woolf and Brontë are. He runs a finger down the spine of one cracked with the reverence of many re-reads; tries to imagine a life of books and comforters, of lounging across her bed or the sofa downstairs, consuming words and worlds with the soft sounds of the farm drifting in and out of her head. He tries to picture it for himself, fails; but he can see Beth. See a younger Beth running home after school, kissing her mother and father and ribbing her siblings and chatting about her day, racing through her schoolwork so she can come to this bookshelf and find a tome to get lost in.

He looks over his shoulder and sees Beth sitting cross legged at the foot of her bed, chewing her lip and looking at her lap like she's worried about his reaction. Like he would come into her space with nothing less than utter reverence. Like he would think less of her for what he finds.

He feels the unaccountable urge to pull the comforter back, shuck off his shoes and pull her beneath it. Not to touch—not too much, at least. He wants to lie in her space and hold her and draw her life from the strands of her hair, breathe the memories from her skin. He wants to know it and for it to know him and for this room to give him something of itself as well.

“S'nice,” Daryl says.

Beth looks up at him. She seems far more melancholy than she was downstairs, and he wonders at that. Wonders what in this room so clean and fresh and full of her there is to make her worry so.

“Yeah,” Beth says. “I like it.”

Daryl nods at the bookshelf. “You read all these?”

“Yeah,” Beth says. “Used to do nothing but read.” A smile pulls at her mouth. “Drove Maggie nuts, especially once I got to middle school. Said I'd never get a boyfriend with my nose stuck in a book.” Daryl snorts, moving on to her dresser to run his hand across the top, come away dust-free. “She never really got why I didn't care about boys more,” Beth says.

“Why didn't you?”

Beth shrugs, looking at her lap again, examining the backs of her fingers. “Seemed like too much work, honestly.”

Daryl snorts again. He leaves a hand on one of the knobs of the dresser. It's a little loose, and jiggles when he moves it. He wonders if he should offer to fix it. “Boys ain't worth it,” he says.

“No. They aren't.”

Daryl looks at her. She's looking at him like this should mean something. Like those words communicate more than they seem to. But Daryl's at a loss. His critical thinking skills are overwhelmed by the amount of her around him, the smell and the delicate furniture and how at home she seems, in a way she didn't in his bedroom.

And that makes him wonder what he looks like. He showered before he came here, yes, but he didn't dress up; is in his usual plaid shirt and ripped jeans, clunky boots that he probably should have taken off before he walked on her carpet. He looks behind himself and is thankful at least that he didn't track in too much dirt; but it unnerves him, the idea that he's come in here like Bogart on safari, navigating the rapids of a young girl's life.

And no matter how relatively tidy the room is, it _is_ young—there's a bin of old Barbies in one corner, clay figures she might have made in art class on the top of the bookshelf. The walls are bare save a few Broadway posters, framed and covered in signatures.

He nods at one of them. “These the cast or something?”

Some of the weight seems to come off Beth's shoulders, and she smiles. “Yeah. Mama took me to New York for my 13th birthday. Waited at the stage doors and everything.” Daryl looks at the posters, heart thumping. “You ever been?”

Daryl snorts, shakes his head. “Never been outta Georgia.”

“Really?”

Daryl turns. Beth's stopped the examination of her fingers, is looking at him instead. Not in condescension, but open curiosity.

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “Almost did, once, when Merle... well, couldn't leave Ma.”

Beth blinks at him, eyelashes long and pale. “You're all she had, huh?”

Daryl shrugs. “Guess so. Don't need me no more now, though.”

“She'll always need you, Daryl,” Beth says. She hesitates, and Daryl tenses, waiting for what she's about to say. “Do you want to talk to her? About what happened?”

“What happened?” Daryl asks. He doesn't need to ask. He knows. But he asks.

“She didn't know, did she? About your back?”

Daryl turns back to the bookshelf; runs his eyes across the figurines lining the top of it. Most of them likely made by Beth, but others that look like gifts; a collection of pretty glass animals, giraffes and zebras and lions. Daryl is sure that in the right light they would sparkle.

“She knew,” he says. “Didn't know how bad it was, though. Didn't want to know.” He snorts softly. “Didn't want to know anything, really.”

“I'm sorry,” Beth says.

Daryl shrugs. “Shit happens.”

“No. Daryl. It doesn't.” He feels her hesitation, and he tightens up, preparing for whatever she's preparing herself for.

He hears the moment her feet hit the carpet; hears the springs of the bed release; hears her socks whispering across the floor until she stands by his side, arm just brushing his. He feels the urge to reach for her again, feel her hand in his, but he resists; waits for her to move first. And she does. Curls her fingers around his and leans her head on his shoulder, sighing softly like the touch releases something inside of her.

“She hasn't talked to you, huh?”

Daryl looks at his feet; at their feet, side by side. “No.”

“She will,” Beth says. She sounds confident, like she believes what she says; it's amazing how she believes what she says. “She just needs time, you know?”

Daryl snorts out a laugh, short, bitter. “She's had time. Fucking 30 years of it.”

Beth goes quiet, and Daryl closes his eyes. Focuses on the softness of her cheek on the hardness of his shoulder. The smoothness of her palm on the calluses of his. The warmth of her spreading through his body like a blanket wrapped around his insides.

Daryl looks down at her. She has her fingers on a drawer of her dresser; is stroking the wood like in her mind she's reached through it, is playing with whatever is hidden inside.

“We all need time,” she says. “Want it.” She squeezes Daryl's hand, leans close again. Turns her head and kisses the skin above his collar, shyly, like she isn't sure of her welcome. And that sparks something in Daryl, that shyness. Because no matter how it trembles through him, her nervousness, her newness to hands and tongues and him, he doesn't want her shy around him. Doesn't want her nervous. He wants to enter her room and roll on the sheets and see her laugh when he blows raspberries into her stomach.

He won't go that far. Not yet. But they need something.

So before she's pulled back too much he's turned and slipped his free hand into her hair and tugged her forward, meeting his lips with hers. They sigh into it at the same moment, the twin bursts of air pushing them apart before they come together again, kissing softly, sweetly, so sweetly it makes Daryl ache in every muscle and every vein. Beth still hasn't let go of his hand but she slips the other one around his waist, cradles the small of his back, rubs her chest against his like she wants the rasp on her nipples, like she wants to work her way inside his ribcage, carve her own space amongst his organs and bones.

 _You're there already, girl_ , he thinks. _You're there already._

The kiss ends as softly as it began—the two of them moving apart; Daryl's thumb stroking her temple, her hand still warm on his back and in his. They share breaths for a few moments before Beth drops down from her tip-toes and buries her face in his chest.

He doesn't hesitate when he wraps his arms around her. Doesn't try to hide the way he breathes her in, for she's doing the same to him.

They stay quietly wrapped around each other until the light through the window begins to change. Beth is the first to pull away, blinking up at Daryl as if emerging from a deep sleep. Daryl, too, feels slightly more than dreamlike; dreamlike, floating, unsure of finding solid ground again.

She smiles up at him. Giggles.

“What?” he asks.

“I don't know,” she says. She squeezes his hand, looks at her dresser again. Bites her lip as she gazes through the wood, touches the spot she'd been touching before, lets out a long breath through her nose. “Just glad I'm alive right now.”

The immediacy of Daryl's reply scares him; scares him enough that he doesn't speak it, not out loud. He mouths it, though; presses his mouth against her hair and speaks through the strands, through her skull, down to the depths of her, laid bare.

 _Me too_ , Daryl thinks. Spells with his lips, his hand still in hers. _Me too._

 


	24. Manic Magic Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl and Beth head into the woods, but it's hard to tell who's leading whom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the length of time between updates—for January, at least, they should be more frequent.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and please review!

This time when he picks her up after rehearsal she's right on time.

He gets to watch her come out of the building with her friends. Dressed not in a party dress but a normal outfit of t-shirt and flannel, ripped jeans and converse. She's talking animatedly with a girl he doesn't know; gesticulating wildly, a smile on her face as she giggles. Daryl finds himself smiling back. She can't see him yet, but he can't help but hope that his smile still warms her.

She stops in the middle of the lot, waving goodbye to her friends. Some of them look back at her curiously, probably asking why she's hanging back when they could give her a ride. One of the boys says something and Beth blushes, but her smile doesn't waver; she keeps waving until they relent and leave.

It isn't until all their cars are gone from the parking lot that Beth looks around, zeroing in on Daryl in moments. The smile she gives him makes his heart thump; both wider and gentler than what she had been giving her friends, like despite the weight on her shoulders from her bag, something's been lifted.

He leans across the bench to get the door for her, swinging it open just in time for her to jump through, smile still wide and excited on her face. She's flushing a little as she closes the door, tucks the bag between her legs, and buckles herself in, and instead of starting the engine Daryl allows himself the moments to look at her—the arch of her neck as she reaches for the buckle, the soft paint on her nails against the ancient seat.

When she's done she sighs, settling back in her seat. She looks at him expectantly, eyebrows raised.

“We goin'?”

A smile plays unbidden at the corners of Daryl's lips. “Don't know where we're goin'.”

He sees her moving for it with enough time that he could panic. Could sweep the parking lot for lingering eyes, turn his head away, tell her not here, where so many could see.

He sees it coming and he doesn't resist—leans forward so she doesn't have to strain against the seat belt when she stretches out her long neck to kiss him.

He can tell she meant it to be a short kiss, but he lets it linger, and she doesn't seem to mind; hums into his mouth as a hand comes up to cup his jaw. He leans into her, opens his mouth to her soft tongue, breathes in the smell of teenage bodies and books and pencil shavings she brings with her.

When she pulls back it isn't far—just far enough to put some breathing space between the two of them, rest their foreheads together, drift against his nose. She's everywhere, surrounding him. He'd do whatever she said in this moment.

“Just take me somewhere,” she says.

He can do that. That, he can do.

* * *

For a while they just drive. Daryl has some idea in his head where they're going, but he isn't ready to share it, and Beth doesn't seem all that curious—seems content to sit beside him, fingers drumming some inner tune into her thigh. She's mouthing the words, and Daryl spends a dangerous time staring at her trying to figure them out.

“You keep staring at me you're gonna kill both of us, you know.”

Daryl's eyes snap back to the road, but he doesn't try to pretend she didn't catch him; lets his lips twitch as he feels her own eyes on him.

“Won't be my fault, then,” he says.

“Course it would. I'm just sitting here.”

 _No you aren't_ , Daryl thinks, but doesn't say; doesn't say because—and here his smile slips—he doesn't know how much she knows. She knows he likes her, wants to be around her, wants to touch her, wants to kiss her and lick her and make her feel good—and even now the back of his mind is wondering what calls she's made to justify her absence from home, how long they have, whether he'll be able to get her back into his bed before the night is through—but the rest of it? The way he feels more alive around her, how the past seems to slip from his shoulders to be easily borne by her un-blighted ones—she's a smart girl. She knows some of it. She might even know parts that he doesn't.

That doesn't mean he's ready to face all of it yet.

“What're you singing, then?” He sees her confusion out of the corner of his eye, and waves his hand at his mouth. “Mouthing. Looked like a song.”

“You really were putting us in danger.” She doesn't sound angry, so he doesn't let himself feel guilty for it. There's a shifting beside him, and he looks over to see she's pulled her feet up onto the seat so she can wrap her arms around her knees. “Just stuck in my head from rehearsal. Ain't even my song.”

Daryl squeezes his hands on the wheel, loosens then, runs his fingers across the rims. He glances at her and she's looking out the window, head tilted back, ponytail loose and dangling. The bracelets she always wears are pressed tight against her jeans, and he sees the edges of the red marks they make on her wrist.

“Sing a bit?”

He doesn't remember if he's asked her to sing for him before, but she looks at him like he hasn't; his cheeks heat under her scrutiny and he shifts in his seat, clears his throat.

“You don't gotta–“

“Not that one,” she says. He glances at her. Her tone of voice has shifted, taken on something heavier; she's looking out the window and he can't make out her face save the curve of her cheek. Her fingers scratch absently at her jeans, making small snicking sounds in the quiet of the cab. “Maybe when we get where we're going. But not that one.”

“A'right.”

“Thank you.”

They ride the rest of the way in silence, but there's a tension creeped in that hadn't been there before. Daryl feels it in the air between them, in the tingling between his shoulder blades. He fucked up, he's fucked up, but he isn't quite sure how; is even less sure how to fix it.

But she hasn't asked him to take her home. She wanted to be somewhere. Somewhere else. Somewhere with him. And if that's what she wants he'll take her there.

* * *

The woods are quiet as they always are, and they're deafening as they always are. Quiet without the inane chatter of people and the humming of machines, the planes overhead muffled by the canopy. Deafening with the sounds of life: squirrels leaping from branch to branch, insects buzzing, leafs brushing against each other in quiet whispers that echo through his skull till they are pushed to the side, worked into the background noise of the forest. He knows the patterns of noise out here, knows exactly what surprises mean; a snapping branch, or the rustle of greenery disturbed, and he'll pause, listen more closely, crouch if he needs to. He learned early on how to live with the forest; it was literally the skin off his back if he couldn't, after all.

He remembers those first lessons, his pop’s eyes sharp on Daryl’s form, watching his steps. Will never looked at Daryl, not if he could help it; girded his eyes, like the sight of his boy was somehow mocking to him. And Daryl supposes it was. Skinny, blonde, short, clumsy little him, always dropping dishes and knocking over Will's ashtrays. At least, that's what Will thought. More often it was Ma tossing things around, usually from sloppiness but sometimes out of spite—goading Will into paying attention to her, even if it was in anger and violence. It happened sometimes when they had that house in the woods; more and more in the trailer, and more again when Merle left. Merle'd given up on protecting Ma long ago; given up on both of them, his skinny kid brother he taught how to drive and to filch smokes from the corner store, who followed him from running pot to running other things to running back to Ma because he was too scared to become a corner boy, too scared to be like Merle and leave Ma to self-destruct. Because he planted daffodils with her. She told him stories of his ancestors, how they could conjure things from wisps of smoke to battle their demons, how he'd do the same someday. She sang to him some nights when he couldn't sleep. So when she started smashing plates on the floor one by one Daryl would push her into her room and stand over the wreckage because he was too weak not to.

Then Will would look at him. Then he would look.

Beth's looking at him, and it prickles Daryl's skin in a way he doesn't particularly like; and he doesn't like that he doesn't like it. Because he likes everything about her. She's not a woman who smashes plates. She won't get him cut to pieces.

But she's looking at him. Looking at his feet as they move through the underbrush, following the lines of his legs, his arms, his face, his chest, his hands. Her sneakers are unbearably loud on the forest floor and he can hear the whistle of Pop's crossbow through the air right before it thunks against Daryl's skull, knocking him off-balance, and knocking again when his stumbling startles their quarry into flight.

He knows his Pop ain't here. Knows he ain't been here for a long time. But he still wants to shout Beth down for being so damn loud a hooker in Honolulu could hear her stomping around. The words tumble around in Daryl's mouth until he feels his cheeks begin to bulge with them. He swallows with effort, but they don't go deep enough. Enough of them linger that it's all he can do to keep his jaw clenched shut, his own steps quiet, his hands empty and twitching without his crossbow to grasp.

Beth must sense something of his mood, for she doesn't say anything as they walk; and her steps _are_ getting softer, the farther they go; and if at some point her hand reaches over to slide into his, he doesn't think of exchanging it for polythene.

By the time they reach the clearing he's had in mind, his thoughts have quieted some too, and he even lets himself pull her closer when she starts to drift. She doesn't stumble so much as let gravity pull her into his side. He looks at her and she's looking up at him so innocently something throbs in his chest.

“Watch it, girl,” he mutters, stepping over a fallen branch, watching with some respect as Beth's feet dance to and fro to avoid the dry and snapping twigs.

She's still pressed against him, and he feels her shrug as she makes it. “Wasn't my fault,” she says. She pauses, and Daryl's looking towards a pair of squirrels chattering on a tree trunk so he doesn't see it coming until she's pressed the kiss to his shoulder. She's pulled away by the time he turns around, looking the other way as well; but he sees the blush on the back of her neck, like she'd just done something daring.

And he supposes it is daring, putting her face and delicate throat so close to someone like him. Doing something to make him look.

“This it, then?”

Daryl realizes that in his absent-mindedness, he's brought them to a stop exactly where he meant to—the middle of the clearing where a stripe of light slashes through a gap in the trees, turning the grass a vibrant green. He looks at her and his chest thumps again because the sun is on her too, even as his body throws half of her into shadow. The side without him, though; that side shines.

“Yeah,” he grunts, and lets himself collapse to the ground, releasing his hold on Beth's hand to do it; but she only tightens her grip and goes down with him, ending up plastered against his side again. He looks at her and she giggles, pushing a little away.

“Sorry,” she says. “I feel...” She tucks her hair behind her ear, looks at the ground, and Daryl suddenly realizes that in all his thinking of the past he's made them strangers again.

“Yeah?” he prods, trying to pitch his voice as gentle as he can—whatever that means; especially when he's still got Pop's voice in his ear, hissing about all the game he's missing while he's looking at this girl; either fuck her or leave her behind cause women ain't worth nothing else. Especially not out here.

But Beth's sitting in her flannel and ripped jeans and her ponytail slipping out and if Daryl were braver he'd reach out and fix it himself: turn her around and pull out the band and gather all those golden strands together. Or maybe he'd leave them be, watch them cover her shoulders like waterfalls.

Will tries to speak, but Daryl cuts him off.

 _Fuck off, Pop_ , he thinks. Not with the animosity he needs. Not with a tone that doesn't hold a tremble. But he thinks it, and he feels the man back off; leave them for a while, in the deafening quiet.

She shrugs, still not looking at him. She's playing with one of the bracelets on her wrist, twisting it around and around like she doesn't even realize she's doing it.

“Beth?”

“You come out here a lot, then?” she asks. She lifts her head, and her eyes are pleading— _leave it alone_. And he doesn't want to, but he's not about to deny her either.

“Sometimes,” he grunts. “Not much lately, but when I was a kid... yeah.”

“I like it. It's quiet.” She tilts her head back, exposing the pale line of her throat as she looks into the trees. Daryl doesn't follow her gaze, but he can hear the pair of bluejays twittering above. “Loud, too.”

Daryl grunts again, and raises his thumbnail to his mouth. He looks down but he can feel Beth looking at him and unaccountably it makes him nervous.

It's like when she kissed his shoulder—just a brush of her lips, fleeting, catching this time on the prickle of his scruff. He looks at her in surprise and finds she hasn't gone far; hovers close enough that he can feel her breath on his mouth, and it makes his head spin.

“What'd you bring me out here for, Daryl Dixon?”

And honestly? He doesn't know. She wanted to go somewhere and he took her and now she's sitting here so close that her scent overwhelms even that of the woods as it presses around the two of them. It forms a cocoon, almost, a tightening shroud pulling them together until her lips are on his again and he forces himself to stop thinking.

She's soft; so soft, from the hand that cups his neck to her lips themselves. They taste like some kind of lipgloss, but not unpleasantly so; a synthetic strawberry that he tasks himself with licking away, seeking her own taste underneath. She moans softly as he does it, placing her other hand on his thigh so she can press in closer. The contact and the pressure send sparks of heat directly to his cock, but he ignores it—circles his arms around her shoulders until she's half-draped across him, and then fully draped as she pushes until he takes the hint and collapses back with a grunt.

Her giggles chase him down to the ground, and before he knows it she's climbed on top of him, straddling his stomach with a grin and her hair wild around her face.

He doesn't realize he's smiling too until he feels her fingers on his lips—tracing them, tickling the hairs under his nose until he scrunches it, and she giggles again. Leans in close to kiss his forehead, his cheek; he lies still beneath her as she explores, cock pounding inches from her ass where it's settled against his abdomen and he wants to touch her so badly his fingers ache.

But he leaves them at his sides; buries his fingers in the grass as Beth smooths her hand across his collarbone, rocks a little against his stomach like she could get herself off like that. Her jeans are tight enough, he wouldn't be surprised; the right wiggle would get the seam right against her clit, enough for her to ride; and the thought of her humping herself to orgasm right on top of him is too much to contain.

“Beth,” he whispers as she kisses down his cheekbone, tongue swirling experimentally every few kisses, prickling itself on his scruff and leaving trails of wet to dry in the forest air.

“This what you bring me here for?” she asks, tone light, playful, and when she digs a clawed hand into his side it's only half-instinct that has him growling and grabbing her waist and flipping them over.

She lands on her back with a small _oof_ and another giggle, looping her arms around his neck as he settles half on top of her, careful to keep his hips clear. It's hard though—and the double meaning there makes him want to laugh hysterically, cause _jesus_ is it—because here she is wiggling underneath him and all he wants is to use his weight to press her into the earth until they are both consumed by it, become part of the dirt and the grass and the soil. Leave them there for other people to tread on, for lovers to roll across, for deer and bears and wolves to leave their marks. So many times he's wished he could melt into the woods, become a tree or a blade of grass; never before has he considered taking another person with him.

He cups her cheek and he kisses her because he can, and she responds in kind. Neither try to dominate the other; there’s just rolling tongues and slicked lips and her hands tangling in his hair, his own fingers carding through her hair and the grass, wondering in the back of his mind if with enough time he could turn it green.

She hums and he lifts his head, lips pulling away from hers with a small _pop_. He doesn't go far; only far enough to see her, cheeks tinged red and lips shiny and slick, eyes darkening even as they spark with light.

“Guess that's my answer,” she says, laughing, breathless.

“Ain't why,” he rumbles, shifting to make sure he isn't resting too much of his weight on her. “Just wanted... I dunno. Wanted you to see it.”

“See what?”

She's looking at him so earnestly, and how could he explain it? Tell her about how this is the only place he can escape his pop's voice, even though it's where it shouts the loudest; how, even more, it's something his ma has never touched. Out here he's the only one needs looking after, and even that fades away in the haze of instinct and animal focus as he tracks prey through the underbrush, reads the signs of life around him. He wanted her here because... he doesn't know. Maybe he wants someone he can be an animal with, who won't tell him to bring his mind back to earth.

So he just shrugs. Rubs a smudge of dirt from her cheek; making it worse, cause it's probably his fingers that put it there. He leaves it be because there's something unbearably charming about her hair mixing with the grass, her skin with the ground, and him the one to bring them all together.

“Dunno,” he says. “It's where I'm from. Wanted you in it.”

Her face shifts, twists, transforms like he's said something profound; and for him, maybe he has. She cards her hands through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. He's surprised how exposed he feels like that; even more surprised by how little he minds it.

“You ever think about that?” she asks. “If we'd grown up together?”

Daryl frowns, sitting up a little so he can see her more clearly; clear his own head of her nearness.

“The fuck's that mean?”

Beth shrugs, her flannel falling a little off her shoulder with the movement. “I dunno, just... been thinking about it. If we knew each other when we were kids.”

Daryl snorts. “Girl, when you were born I hadn't been a kid for a long time.”

She rolls her eyes, shifting her body a bit. “I _know_ , I just mean... I don't know. It's weird. And silly.”

“Yeah.”

Beth rolls her eyes, shoving a little at his shoulder. “Shush.” Daryl smiles, quick and small, and she returns it before going serious again. “I've just been thinking... we aren't what we're supposed to be. Neither of us.” She wraps her hand around his bare bicep near her head, slides it up and down in a way he doubts she means to be arousing, but which makes his cock shiver. “As ourselves, or with each other. It ain't supposed to be this way. But it is. And I just wonder if knowing you sooner would have made any difference. That's all.”

“What, if you'd still wanna fuck me or not?”

Beth blushes prettily even as she rolls her eyes. “ _Maybe_.” She raises one of her knees, resting the leg against his hip, rubbing gently. “No, just... if maybe things wouldn't'a hurt so much.” He tilts his head, letting his confusion show; after a moment she shakes hers. “Never mind, just... I told you, it's silly.”

“You ain't silly.”

“Daryl–“

“You ain't.”

She blinks up at him, emotions flitting across her face. She touches him slowly, softly; fingers on his cheek, drifting to his temple.

“Mama would'a liked you,” she says.

Daryl snorts, rolling off her to land on his ass on the grass. “Yeah, alright.”

“I mean it.” He can see she's sitting up too, but he doesn't look at her directly; examines his nails intently while he watches her out of the corner of his eye. “Shawn too.” Daryl glances at her, and she's grinning. “He'd'a been happy to have another man in the house, at least. Always whining about all the estrogen.”

Daryl thinks about Merle. Tries to imagine him growing up in a house full of women, rather than men with Ma all alone. An image pops into his head of Merle sat in the bathroom with barrettes in his hair while the girls play dress-up. Daryl smirks.

“Wouldn'a driven Merle batshit.”

Beth giggles. “I can imagine.” She draws her knees to her chest, hugging them against herself. The pale skin of her knee jumps out at him through the rips in her jeans, and he doesn't stop himself from reaching over and running his thumb across it. Beth shivers. When he tries to move his hand away he finds hers covering it. He lets it be. “He was so overprotective,” Beth says. She isn't giggling anymore. “One time me and Jimmy were watching TV on the couch, not even touching, and Shawn shoved himself between us like we were making out right there.”

Daryl feels an uncomfortable prickling at Jimmy's name, but he pushes it away. “Don't think he would'a liked what we've been doing then.”

“He'd get over it,” Beth says. She squeezes her hand around Daryl's on her knee. “I'm older.”

Daryl snorts. “I am too.”

“Really? I didn't notice.” Daryl pushes her a little, and she pushes right back; takes the opportunity to shift closer to him so her calf crosses across his. “I like that you're older,” she says, a mischievous spark in her tone making his heart race. “It's sexy.”

Daryl flushes even as he chuckles, pulling on her knee until their thighs cross. He knows the bulge in his pants is visible, but he can't bring himself to be bothered too much. She understands. He thinks she does. And even if her understanding is just pretend, at least it means she isn't going to push him.

“Say that again in ten years, huh. See what you think then.”

She gives him that stare again—the one that says he's told her something unexpected, opened up another part of himself he didn't know there was a door to. The silence goes on long enough that he begins to shift, their jeans rasping against each other's.

“What?” he asks.

“You think we'll still be together in ten years?”

Now it's Daryl's turn to stare, but unlike when she does it to him, it doesn't seem to phase Beth; she just looks back at him, open and honest, waiting for his honesty in return.

“I dunno,” he says.

As he so often does when he's confused, he thinks of his childhood. Remembers Merle whispering to him at night in their piss-stained bed, comforting him in his way: “Ain't gonna be like this forever, little brother,” he'd say as their parents' voices volleyed back and forth in the background. “One'a them's gonna kill the other one'a these days. Just you wait. Then you and me can get out of here and it'll be the open road from then on out.” He remembers Merle punching his shoulder before rolling onto his back; or sometimes, the bad times, the ones where it was just Pop screaming and Merle grunting and he crawled into bed raw and bloodstained, he'd let Daryl hold onto him; let him know without words which places were the worst so Daryl'd keep his hands from there, but otherwise he wouldn't push him away; would press into Daryl, sometimes, and despite the circumstances Daryl doesn't think there were many moments more happy in his early childhood.

But none of them died; they lived, and they fought, and Daryl drew into himself while Merle grew outwards and soon Daryl was alone in that bed more often than not, or rolled away with his face in his pillow to avoid the stench of marijuana or something worse. And then the fire, and then the trailer, and then Merle wasn't around at all and it was just Daryl and Ma and her drink and his scars and the man that put them there, and it took less than ten years to get from one place to the other. And now he's 35, and he's faced enough decades to know that the idea of time healing all wounds is shit.

But there’s something in him that wonders. His situation has shifted; his body's grown stronger, his mind sharper; and his ma is sober, and starting a family, and here's this girl, this ridiculous girl, sitting half in his lap and asking if she'll be the first good thing that refuses to change.

He's sunk so deep in his thoughts that he startles a little when her lips brush his cheek; near his cheekbone, just above the line of his scruff, the softest brush but a brush that lingers, spreading and sinking against his skin. He looks at her, and she hooks her leg around his so they're locked together; he feels the tendons in her thigh stretching to reach around his, her hand on the ground behind him to steady herself as she takes hold of his hand, grip warm and soft.

“That's a stupid question,” she says. “I'm sorry.”

“No,” he says, “no, it... it ain't. I just don't know.”

“I don't either,” she says. He turns his head, meets her eyes so close. It surprises him every time, to find her face so near to his; the face that he's seen across tables and draped in shadows and shivering with fright beneath the eaves, turned towards him with everything bared, everything, nothing but her fluttering eyelashes and their mingled breath between them.

“Maybe we ain't supposed to know.”

“Yeah.” She tilts her head, looks down at his shoulder. Kisses it again, slow, deliberate, ending with a flick of tongue. He doesn't hide how that makes him shiver, and she doesn't hide how his shiver makes her smile; she just tucks her temple against him, closes her eyes, and begins to sing:

 _I miss the mountains._  
_I miss the lonely climb._  
_Wandering through the wilderness._  
_And spending all my time_  
_Where the air is clear_  
_And cuts you like a knife..._

She trails off just as Daryl feels the first tear drip from her cheek to his arm, roll down through the dusting of hair, drying before it reaches the bend of his elbow. A few more well up to join it, but no more than that.

Beth closes her eyes and holds onto him. He presses his cheek to her head, closes his own. He breathes in the forest, the deafening still; the one constant he's had from childhood to here, and will have till the housing developments arrive to raze it all down. But even then, there will be forest in the world; there will be woods. And whenever he buries his face in this girl's hair, he suspects it will bring him there.

* * *

He opens his eyes to the dark.

Not the dark, he realizes; the oncoming dark, the sky the color of a mottled bruise as it slides from day towards night, the trees great shivering shadows in the fading sun.

As far as he can tell, Beth is still asleep; sprawled half across his body with her head on his chest, her hand flat on his breastbone. Her whole body rises and falls as he breathes, and he struggles not to feel too self conscious about it; focuses on keeping his breaths steady, calm and collected so he doesn't jostle her too much and wake her.

He lets his eyes slide closed again as he breathes in deeply, taking in the sharp scent of grass, the softer waftings of Beth's hair as the drifting molecules tangle and slide together. It's late spring, so he knows what hour the twilight indicates. He never got around to asking Beth when she's meant to be home before they fell asleep, lulled by the warm sun.

It's been a long day for both of them, after all; Beth at school, Daryl at the garage, the long walk to the clearing and the things they've done here. Not that they did much; they talked, that long time in the hour they arrived; when Beth's tears dried she smiled at him in a way that he couldn't resist, not with her face so close and their bodies so tangled. He kissed her, and they rolled in the grass, and by the end of it the white shirt beneath her flannel was green with grass stains and her hair filled with twigs and leaves.

Daryl doubts he looks much better—not that he ever looked so great to begin with, straight off work as he was—but it isn't too much that they can't fix it with a little grooming. And something about that image—taking turns sitting behind each other, running fingers through hair, picking at twigs and thumbing dirt off necks; kissing the cleaned spots, maybe, letting hands wander... well. It's not like he needs much to get him excited these days, especially not with her curled up so warm against him, but this is enough to bring his free hand down to his crotch, pull at the denim to relieve the pressure. But upon touching himself, what began as a pull becomes a press, and he can't stop the groan from rolling through his throat as he tends to the erection he's had since before she slipped into the passenger seat of his truck.

He glances at her; her hand on his chest, the tip of her nose all he can see of her face where it's turned down and away from him. All she'd need to do is open her eyes and she'd see him, see his hand, see where he strains against his jeans. Strains for her, she knows that, just as she knows he doesn't want to take that from her. Can't. Not with the voices in his head, not with what he's taken from her already.

But it feels so good, his hand on himself, and in the deepening twilight he lets himself imagine her opening her eyes. Seeing what he's doing, where he's touching; laying her small hand across his larger one, guiding him in his press. Pushing him away, maybe, so it's just her hand against him, slow, exploring. He knows that she's never touched a cock before, and he wonders what she'd think. Whether his hardness would excite her the way her wetness excites him; whether she would continue to knead him through his jeans or reach for the zipper, dip her fingers inside and take him in hand, and he knows his breathing is getting choppy and she could wake any moment but surely it wouldn't hurt to touch himself, just for a second—

He jolts violently when a tone begins to play and something vibrates against his leg, hand flying away from his crotch to sink into the grass as Beth's head comes up, looking around in sleepy alarm.

“Daryl–”

“'S fine, just my phone,” Daryl says, fishing inside his back pocket until he withdraws the shitty thing. He squints at the display, not recognizing the number—and he's about to silence the call and attend to Beth when he remembers what he'd thought, about things that change. Thinks that maybe dodging calls is something he should reform.

Beth grumbles sleepily as he sits up, curling up in the grass with her head on a bent arm. He takes a moment to appreciate how cute she looks, all wrapped up in her flannel with grass tickling her cheeks; takes another moment to breathe against the increased ache the change in position has sent into his balls. By the time he's ready the phone has reached its final ring and he has to scramble to flip it open.

“Hello?” he says.

“Jesus, thank God.”

Daryl frowns, not recognizing the voice.

“Who the hell is this?”

“Maggie. Maggie Greene.”

Daryl's eyes fly to Beth. She's blinking up at him now, eyebrows raised as she tries to read his expression. He looks away.

“What do you want?” he asks gruffly, wincing when his cock brushes against his fly.

“You're the first one I've been able to get; I called the house and Beth didn't pick up, and she isn't answering her cell, so I thought I'd try you before calling Diane's–”

“Whoa, slow down, fuck,” Daryl says, shaking his head to try to dispel the last of his sleepiness. “The fuck's going on?”

“Dad had a heart attack.”

Daryl freezes, muscles taut and fingers digging into the grass; he senses Beth sitting up beside him, and turns farther away, trying to think past the pounding in his ears.

“When?”

“A few hours ago,” Maggie says. Her voice has gone rough, like she's about to cry, and Daryl feels his body wind even tighter. “He was working in the fields, and Eleanor was looking out the window and saw him collapse—she didn't even call me, I only heard from the hospital—”

“He ok, though?”

“They don't know yet.” Maggie sniffs loudly, and he hears a muffled male voice in the background. She draws in a long breath. “I'm with Eleanor and Glenn at the hospital; he's been in surgery, but he should be out soon, so I wanted to pick up Beth–”

“I can get her,” Daryl blurts.

Maggie pauses. Daryl can feel Beth beside him, but he still doesn't look at her. Isn't ready for her to see what's on his face.

“You know where she is?”

“Studying at Diane's,” Daryl says, praying his voice doesn't sound as panicked to Maggie as it does to himself. “I texted her to ask how Ma was doing, said she was there. It's on the way. I'll get her.”

“Alright,” Maggie says, sounding skeptical. “Ok, just... don't fuck up how you tell her.” A bit of fire has entered Maggie's voice, and despite her lack of physical presence, Daryl can feel himself shrinking. “If you're a dick and you upset her I'll take your balls, I fucking swear.”

Daryl swallows, trying to calm his breathing. “I won't. I won't,” he says.

“Ok,” Maggie says. “Thank you. Hurry.”

The line clicks off.

Daryl lowers the phone from his ear, fingers numb, ears roaring. He isn't thinking­–, he doesn't know what to think yet. His ma, seeing him fall—

“Daryl?”

Daryl turns, and Beth is looking at him. Dusk has fallen heavily like a cloak around them, and her eyes look almost black in the dark.

“Daryl? What's wrong? What happened?”

Daryl doesn't answer.

He gets to his feet. He holds out his hand. For the first time, he doesn't feel any better when she grasps it.

“I'll tell you in the car,” he says. “We gotta go, Beth. We gotta go.”


	25. The Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beth and Daryl arrive at the hospital—together, but in two very different places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for dark thoughts, offensive language, and a panic attack.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> By the way! I realize I haven't been advertising myself, and should probably do that—my Tumblr name is bethgreenesgirlgang, so if you feel like hearing me complain about my thesis, you're welcome to come on over :)

The transmission needs fixing. Daryl's known this for a while, but he's never made it a priority; he can tell from the sound it isn't catastrophic, won't strand him on the highway any time soon. The sound itself isn't even that noticeable; a rattle when he presses the accelerator too hard, a background rumble almost too soft to be noticed.

He notices it now. He notices the uneven roll of the wheels, telling him he needs more air in one of them; he notices every jolt in the suspension, every hiss and scuffle as the engine roars away in front of him, propelling them forward, driving them on.

But for the humming engine and the rush of the road and the cars passing by there is nothing but silence. A silence he can touch, taste, balance on the tip of his nose like a rodeo dog with a ball. It's rancid, the way it burns behind his eyes, the way it flicks them from front to side and back again, too slowly to be safe.

He's going to get them killed, but Beth isn't ribbing him for it. She's not doing much at all.

“Ain't much farther,” Daryl says, hands flexing on the wheel. He looks to the side, and Beth hasn't responded. Hasn't even twitched. Her eyes are fixed out the front window, but he can tell she isn't looking that way. She isn't looking at much of anything. “Beth?”

“Ok,” she says.

“Alright.” Daryl turns back to the road, squeezes the wheel like he's wringing the life out of something.

He doesn't know what he expected when he told her. Feared that she'd cry, fling her arms around him or something. Beg for comfort. But she didn't do anything. Blinked at him with those giant eyes as he forced the words through his mouth, looked through the front windshield when he was finished. Didn't even tell him to hurry. Blinked slowly and not often enough and breathed like she'd prefer not to be breathing at all. She's barely moved since then, not even when a tractor-trailer swerved nearly on top of them; just sat with her hands in her lap, fingers shaking just enough to be visible, taking up so little space Daryl almost feels like he's alone.

But he isn't alone. He wasn't. He was in the clearing with her where they held each other and rolled in the grass and spoke like he's never spoken to anyone before. Where that was is absent now. A negative space, like something in the world's turned inside out, turned unnatural. It feels up to him to make this situation right but everything he can think to say would only drag them both down with it.

_Sure he's fine. Just relax._

_They cure all kinda things now. Heart attacks ain't so bad._

_People die every day, you ungrateful bitch. Get the fuck over it._

He sucks in his breath at the last one, glances at her to be sure he didn't say it out loud. But she hasn't moved. Just sits, and trembles, and breathes, and stares into nothing like there's someone there staring back.

Maggie'll take his balls for this.

Hell, he'll take them first.

By the time they roll into the hospital's parking lot he feels a rage building in his gut. Rage at her, because what the fuck does she want him to do? Wave his magic wand, make it all better? What right does she have to act like this, like something she ain't, more like the worst of him than she's ever been? Reminds him of his fucking mother; staring into space while Will rages at her, Daryl begging her to say something, say anything, answer his dad before he takes her by the scruff of the neck and shoves her unresisting body into the wall like he's trying to hammer his way through it. And Daryl would stand and Merle would run and it would be the three of them, Ma's face growing bloodier and bloodier and Will angrier and angrier and still she lay limp in his arms as if she'd asked him to do this to her.

Beth's asking for it. She is. Ignoring him like this, making it difficult. She isn't supposed to make him want to wring her neck just to make her look his way. She isn't.

He doesn't get the door for her, doesn't help her down from the truck. Doesn't wait for her as he heads across the parking lot, walking through the dark towards the hospital and its white and blinding lights. He knows she's following him; can hear the _pat-pat_ of her sneakers on the asphalt, rapid to keep up but somehow sluggish, like it's only instinct getting her this far. He wants to turn around and take her hand but he doesn't because she doesn't deserve it.

It isn't until they pass through the automatic doors—the sterility blasting Daryl's nose, the shuffle of nurses and patients and doctors, the quiet beeping and motel-room wall art and everything blue and white and ugly—that he hears the _pats_ turn into _squeaks_ that slow to a stop until he knows he's walking alone.

He wants to keep walking alone. He wants to close himself to all of this. He wants to go in and do his duty to his mother and damn this girl that means nothing to him beyond plucky tits and a sweet cunt.

But there's more than that. He knows there's more. There's her face and her hair and the way she laughs and the sounds she makes when he's kissing her, like she wants him like he wants her, spread out and glowing; there's the way she looks at him when he struggles to explain himself, the way she looks at him when she wants to understand, the way she looks at him just to look, like he's something worth looking at. There's the way this girl, this ridiculous girl half his size and dusted with pimples and dime store perfume, can bring him to his knees with a slant of her eyes; there's the things she's seen inside of him that shouldn't exist, not anymore—and yet she's found them. The desire to lie in the grass or sleep for days but to do it in company; to live in this world and not live alone.

She's given all this to him and he's given her nothing and her father could be dying and he's turning away.

He stops in front of the nurse's station.

Swallows once; swallows again, looking at this building he's only been in twice; to identify his dad's body, and when his ma got into Merle's pills and he didn't trust his ability to clear her stomach on his own. Every other time, every other wound, he's dealt with himself. Cracked ribs and shattered fingers and abrasions and slashes and glass embedded to the bone; he tended to himself and he tended to Ma and they never needed a place like this, especially not when Will would kill them for going; especially not when wounds brought questions and questions brought the cops and the cops brought stuck up bougies with their eyes down their noses as they looked with glee at the Dixon clan tearing itself apart. It was safer, it was cheaper, it was easier to keep to themselves; to venture outside only when all other choices were exhausted.

Beth will see something different when she comes here. She'll see safety, and care, and trained professionals doing what they do with competence and skill. She could be a doctor if she wanted to, he reckons; wouldn't be surprised if she does become one. She's smart. She cares about people. She wouldn't look down her nose.

He draws in a breath—a breath of antiseptic and thrice-washed floors and polyester blend—and he turns.

He expected she stopped to look around. To gather her bearings, or to punish him for walking ahead.

But he turns and what he sees is none of that. It isn't trepidation, it isn't frustration, it isn't the catatonia of the car.

She looks like his ma at the bottom of a bottle. She looks like she's dying.

Her breaths are coming in sharp and shallow pants as he walks up to her, and her eyes stay fixed on the middle distance even when he stops a foot from where she stands. Her whole body is trembling like a leaf and Daryl feels something like panic begin to build in his chest.

“Beth?” She doesn't respond. “Beth.” He hesitates before reaching out, but does it anyway; curls his hand awkwardly around her shoulder and jumps with her when she responds to the contact. “Beth,” he says, a little relief bleeding into his tone. “The fuck's the matter–”

“I don't want to be here,” she whispers.

Daryl glances towards the nurses' station, sees no one watching them; he moves himself closer.

“What? Your dad–”

“Please.” The word is deep in her throat, seated nearly in her stomach; he watches, reeling, as tears begin to dribble from her unblinking eyes. “Please take me away, Daryl, I don't want to–”

“Beth, you gotta.” Daryl strengthens his hold on her shoulder, hoping it will give her some grounding; she doesn't pull away from it, which is something. “C'mon, it's your dad. We can leave right after–”

“You don't-, Daryl, please.”

She's crying in earnest now, and when he steps towards her she backs away and he takes another step and she goes back again and she's about to turn and run when he reaches up to hold her other arm.

“I don't want to!” she says, louder, beginning to struggle against his hands, and he feels his heart pounding frantically as he tries to draw her in, muffle whatever is beating around inside of her.

“Beth, girl, calm down–”

“Don't make me, don't make me–”

“Beth!” Daryl says, louder, right in her face. She cows and somehow that's even worse—leaning away from him, almost limp, held up only by how viciously she's trembling. Once he's sure she isn't about to bolt, he moves one hand from her arm to hold her face, thumb hooked under her chin and fingers stretching up across her cheek. He feels her panic bleeding into him, a strange sensation that makes his chest ache. “The fuck's the matter with you?” he whispers.

She takes hold of his shirt with one hand, his wrist with the other; grips him until the bones grind and still they don't move beyond her trembling.

“I can't...” she whispers, eyes huge in her pale face, “I can't do this again.”

“Do what? Girl, what?”

“I just, I...” She tugs at his wrist like it's holding her upright, seems to struggle away and towards him at the same time. “I can't do this again, please–”

“You just gotta see him–”

“No!” Beth howls, falling into him then pulling away, yanking him with her as she shakes her head violently, “Don't make me, please don't make me, don't make me–”

“Beth–”

“Excuse me.”

Beth doesn't stop shaking but otherwise falls still, still clinging to Daryl with a death grip as they turn towards the woman who spoke.

It's the nurse who had been manning the desk: tall, willowy, thin, but eyes sharp enough to daunt a charging bull. And if that didn't do it, the two orderlies standing at her shoulders would.

And Daryl realizes what this looks like. His huge hands, filthy with grass and dirt, staining Beth's flannel and the skin of her cheek, fingers pressing red indents into her face; body large and looming over the tiny young girl that struggles against him.

_Don't make me, please don't make me, don't make me–_

He releases her so quickly that she stumbles, standing straight and backing away a step, shoving his hands in his pockets and rounding his shoulders, making himself smaller, hiding his burning cheeks. He can feel Beth looking at him, shaking, still shaking, and all he wants is to reach for her but the nurse is looking between them with a gaze like fire.

“Do you need help?” the nurse asks Beth.

 _She needs me_ , Daryl doesn't want to think; but he can't help it—if he could get her outside for a minute, just a minute, talk to her and touch her and calm her down—

But this woman isn't going to let Beth go anywhere with him. Not now, not ever. It's her job. And she's good at it.

“Wh-, what?” Beth asks, voice trembling and Daryl has to squeeze his eyes shut at how helpless she sounds.

“Do you need help?”

Silence rings through the lobby, and Daryl realizes that everything has stopped for them. He glances up and around and sees them watching him: doctors and nurses and patients and family and friends, children, a little girl pulled behind her mother and out of his sight; and Daryl feels that familiar shame work up through his gut, burning as it goes.

 _Trash,_ it whispers. _Fucking redneck trash, got its hands on the farmer's daughter. Girl's a fucking virgin, you know—you know what they do to creeps like you get their hands on virgins_. _Filthy cocksucker, ain't worth the paint on her toes, look at you with your paws all over her like you got some gilded invitation, like you ain't some pedo wife-beating faggot. Deserve what's coming from this, you fucking deserve all of it—_

“I... no.”

Daryl glances up through his bangs. Sees Beth's eyes turned on him. They still look wild, wide and wet, but not so crazed; she seems, at least, to understand what might be about to happen.

“No,” she says, more strongly. “No, I'm fine. I'm here for...”

She trails off, mouth working, no sound emerging. Daryl's hand twitches at his side. He looks at the nurse, her gaze still burning between them, then back to Beth.

And she's begging. With her eyes and her posture and her trembling mouth, she's begging. Begging him.

He nods at her, throat thick. She doesn't look away.

“I'm here for my dad,” she says, voice tiny; then larger, building in strength. “Hershel Greene. I'm here for Hershel Greene.”

“And him?” the nurse says.

“He's with me,” Beth says, close to a declaration. There's a pause, and then she steps sideways, digging into his pocket to take his hand. He meets her eyes. They still waver, tremble, but her mouth is a line, strong and hard. “I'm fine. He's with me. ”

The nurse looks between them, obviously skeptical, and Daryl knows exactly what she sees—a battered woman standing by her man. Pushing aside the abuse because her pain means less than his safety. Hiding herself from help because taking help means accepting she needs it.

Daryl just manages to stand still, but it's only just; everything in him is screaming at him to run, to leave Beth here and jump in his truck and drive, drive across the border, across the ocean, get out of this place that brought this girl to tears and the arms of the law bearing down on him.

But he's here for her. He's here for Ma, and he's here for her—and maybe, somehow, a little for himself. And even in the constricted space of his pocket, he finds her fingers and grips them hard and he feels a current of strength build between them.

“He had a heart attack,” Daryl hears himself saying, meeting the nurse's eyes. “You know where he is?”

The orderlies are looking at each other, obviously growing restless with the desire to return to their tasks now that the crisis has passed; but the nurse doesn't appear moved. Nonetheless, she must be aware of the scene they're causing; she glances around the lobby, then back at him, before nodding, short and sharp.

“I'll look. Come with me.”

The crowds that had paused to watch the disturbance slowly disperse, and Daryl and Beth move between them; Daryl hunched against the stares, Beth seemingly oblivious of them. He lets her pull his hand out of his pocket so they can interlock their fingers more securely. It makes him nervous, that display, no matter how the snugness of her fingers between his sends waves of warmth washing through his chest. He looks at the back of her head as she leads him to the nurse's station, and he knows that if she asked him to leave now, he'd agree in a second. The fluorescent lighting does little to diminish her shine; but it makes him oily, unkempt. There is no more the eyeless trees of the forest or the warm cocoon of his bed. This is the first time he's been in public with her, seen her _family_ with her, since the night she spread her legs and let him touch her.

He looks around, fleeting glimpses into strangers' eyes, and he sees what they do—her tiny form pressed into a wall, or a truck, or some seedy hotel bed; his dick pounding into a body bursting with muffled screams, the bruises left on her skin afterwards, the smirk on his face as she tries unsuccessfully to stay covered as she cleans herself up. He sees the bottles they both reach for, the bottles they drain to the last drop, the pills waiting for her and the coke waiting for him.

He sees it, and it's hard to see the pink wings of her pussy, spread wide for him. It's hard to see the way she glistened, soaked with her need for him, for _him_. It's hard to see the astonishment on her face as she comes down from climax, hard to feel her arms drawing him closer, her lips on his face, his throat, his lips, her hair tangling around them like tendrils of silk. It's hard to find her laughing face, her bashful face, the tears she dripped onto his skin.

It's ugly, here. This place makes everything ugly. And he wants to take her away.

But they've reached the desk. The nurse is typing in Hershel's name. He's out of surgery, she says; sedated, but stable. He's in a room on the third floor. The family is there, waiting.

Daryl knows he'll have to let go of Beth's hand soon. There's no reason for him to be holding it, none that Maggie could find, and Beth doesn't deserve her questions now. He wonders what she does deserve, this ghost clinging to his hand tighter and tighter as the elevator ascends.

When he releases her so she can be pulled into Maggie's arms, he steps back, averts his eyes from the moment. They've entered somewhere else, now. Some different kind of family.

He glances at her once and she isn't looking at him. He glances at her again and she is.

He doesn't look again. He meets eyes with Glenn; receives his nod, nods back. Settles into a waiting room chair, prepared to ride out the sisters' reunion before he asks about his ma.

 _Please don't make me_.

He closes his eyes, closes the world, and sends her away with it.

 


	26. Finger Paints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl hasn't seen his mother since she saw his back; and her sedated fiancé's bedside is not exactly the best place for the conversation that follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this story will get happy again eventually.
> 
> Thank you SO much to everyone who takes the time to review. I'm doing my best to respond to as many messages as I can; but even if I don't respond, I read and love them. So thank you. And thanks to Abby for beta'ing :)
> 
> Warning for past abuse.

He forgot how much grey is in her hair.

That's the first thing Daryl thinks, standing in the door of Hershel's room. The untamed mass is bent over the bed, obscuring most of her face and all of Hershel's. Daryl can see their hands, though; wires and tubes emerging from Hershel's, his ma's slipped precariously between them, holding the flesh she can reach. He can smell her Nicorette from the doorway; hear the smacks, loud and rapid like a rabbit's heartbeat.

If he were another kind of man, he'd make a joke of that. _Can't believe he hasn't woken up by now, the racket you're making_. He hears himself saying it, in his voice, with his own inflections. Feels it on the tip of his tongue, the impulse to bring a bit of life into the room, however trite.

But he's not that man. He's only himself. And Ma barely recognizes that one anyway.

“Ma?” he says.

She looks at him, blinks once, then looks away.

_Ok._

Daryl takes a few more steps into the room, shutting the door behind himself. He looks around; takes in the unfamiliar machinery, the strange sounds they make: beeps and bellows and Hershel's breathing amplified by the machine helping him along with it. The walls are painted an inoffensive blue, a cheap landscape painting glowering over the scene. It's a beach, painted in streaks of watercolor that Daryl bets a half-talented fifth-grader could accomplish.

He's seen the ocean once, sort of—a trip he and Merle took to Savannah while Ma was in the hospital recovering from her stomach pumping. They needed money for hospital bills, and she didn't take _all_ the pills—Merle got a decent price from some tweaker on the boardwalk and they drove back the same night. Daryl almost asked Merle if they could stay until sunrise, just to see the ocean as something more than a black, breathing monster; but he wouldn't have to know his brother well to know what Merle'd say to that. Besides, the balance was due in the morning. So they drove away, a handful of sweaty bills in the glove compartment, the crash of the waves chasing them on.

The beach in the painting is sunlit, cheerful. Dotted with colorful umbrellas, a few attempts at figures in swimsuits. It looks awful to Daryl, but also it doesn't. The technique is atrocious, colors smudged and muddled like a dog'd mixed them, seagulls nothing more than squiggles in the air. But there's an innocence about it that makes Daryl's throat catch. Whoever painted it had no ulterior motives, not that Daryl can see. They wanted to paint a beach. This is what they thought a beach to be. It didn't come out the way it looked in their mind, but that's ok; the water is blue and the sand yellow and the sky a gradient from azure to cerulean.

He can imagine what Beth would say about it. Start talking about a trip she took to the beach when she was younger, maybe. How her mama wouldn't let her wear a two-piece, no matter that Maggie was going in a full-on string bikini; how she ended up in a bright pink speedo that didn't let her feel the sun on her stomach or the waves on the small of her back.

And Daryl could offer to take her to Savannah. Walk down the boardwalk, holding hands because there's no one there to tell them not to. They could find a shop off main street where she'd try on bikinis for him, red ones and beaded ones and suits that were barely two pieces of fabric scrapped together. He doesn't think she would like those. She'd end up with something sweet, simple, practical enough that it wouldn't be taken away by the waves, but still small; small enough that it's nearly all of her beneath his hands and his eyes, the long plane between her bellybutton and her bottoms calling for him to drop to his knees and drift his lips across the smooth space. He wouldn't do that then, of course; would wait for later, in their motel room (that he'd apologize for, that she would love anyway) to kiss every inch of exposed skin, strip away the suit so everything is revealed. Touch her with his fingers and his lips and his tongue, feel the ocean rushing within her to lap up against his shore.

Hershel's heart monitor beeps, and he's pulled out of his fantasy; far enough to flush at it, fantasizing about this man's daughter while he lies half-dead in a hospital bed. While the daughter seems half-dead herself and he doesn't know why.

His ma still isn't looking at him. Keeps her eyes resolutely on Hershel's hand in hers, between the tubes and the wires. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her nose puffy and Daryl's seen her cry enough times to know its aftermaths.

“Y'ok?” he asks. Her hair still hides Hershel's face, most of her own; and again, she barely glances at him before looking back to her fiance.

“I'm surprised you came,” she says.

Daryl pauses at that. Tries to think back—through the Beth-haze he's been in the past few days; few weeks, few months, however long this thing between them has lasted, because it feels at once as short as a day and long as a lifetime. He thinks back and he realizes he hasn't spoken to his mother since she saw what her husband had done to him.

Daryl swallows, shifts on his feet. Feels an absurd anxiety at not being able to see Hershel's face; but he knows that seeing it would open a whole other host of things he doesn't have the time to deal with now.

“Course I did,” Daryl says. He attempts a smile, achieves more of a grimace. “Family, ain't we?”

Eleanor hums noncommittally, looks at Hershel's hand. It isn't an old man's hand, no matter the devices sticking out of it; it's a strong hand. Weathered, knowing. If Daryl were anyone else, he would say it looked gentle.

But he knows. He knows from his own life, the damage that hands can do; and he knows what these hands have done, at least some of it. Remembers the tremble in Beth's voice as she told him about Shawn, about her dad, about the drink, about the belt. And Daryl wonders how a hand that has done such violence can be held so gently.

“Ma...”

“The doctors said he should be fine,” Eleanor says, still not looking at him. “They got to him quick enough, and he's healthy otherwise. Gotta take it easy for a while, but he'll be fine.”

“That's good, Ma.”

She snorts softly, looks at him at last. “Really? That really makes you happy?”

Daryl frowns, begins to take a step forward before he thinks better of it. “Course it does. Why wouldn't it?”

“I know how you feel about all of this,” she says, bitterness lacing her tone. “I know how _I_ feel about this. You think I didn't ask myself a million times if this was the right thing? Getting' married again? You think this was easy?”

“Ma–“

“Shut up, boy,” she snaps. Daryl quiets, falls in on himself. Eleanor glares at him before looking back at Hershel, her hair obscuring both their faces. “He told me everything. Before he proposed he told me everything. What the drink did to him, and to his family. What _he_ did to his family.” Daryl thinks of Beth, teary and pressed into him. He wonders if Hershel told his ma that part. “And I thought, hell. If that's the worst this man's done I better snatch him up quick.” She's quiet for a moment, looking at her fiance. “I always thought your dad would live forever,” she says softly. “Seemed like the type, you know? No one goes roaring through the world like he did just to drop dead out of nowhere. Ain't no way.” She shakes her head. “Then he was gone. And that was the end of it, right?”

“Ma–”

“You didn't tell me.” She's looking at him now and there are tears in her eyes and she's looking at him. “He did that to you— _god_ , Daryl, least I was _drunk_ most of the time he laid into me. Didn't feel half of it. Ain't no way to defend myself neither. Why the fuck'd you let him do that to you?”

Daryl gapes at her. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she says, glare murderous. “I raised you'n Merle to be _men_. And look at what happened to y'all. Merle's some half-pint junkie and you your–, your daddy's _whipping_ _post_.” The anger drains from her body suddenly, and she slumps; Daryl's body is half clenched to lunge forward and catch her if she falls. “You didn't _tell_ me, Daryl. Why didn't you _tell_ me?”

“You didn't need to know,” Daryl mumbles.

“Bullshit,” Eleanor hisses. She glances at Hershel, almost as if she's worried her cursing will wake him. But then she's right back to Daryl, gaze intense above the bags under her eyes. “You're my _son_ , Daryl. Of course I needed–” She closes her mouth, glaring at him. “What you want to say?”

“Nothin',” Daryl mutters.

“You opened your mouth, Daryl Dixon. What do you want to say to me?”

Daryl stares at her, twitching. Remembers the days when she'd curl up on her bed and cry for hours; no food, no rest, just drinking and crying and staring at the wall while Daryl tries to get her to eat some of the jerky he hunted down the weekend before. Imploring her to calm down before Pop gets home, cause if he gets home and sees her like this they all know what's gonna happen; and when they hear Will's footsteps on the stairs of the trailer and Eleanor cries harder Daryl grits his teeth and locks the door and faces his dad down with nothing but his mouth and his skinny teenaged body, his back still aching from the last time they did this. Will had no problem opening old wounds; always whipped harder when the blood began to flow, yelling, “Mind me, _mind me_ , ya scrawny cunt!” and Daryl lying there as silent as he could, numbed long ago, crying out only when the sounds of his mother's sobs filtered out of the trailer window.

And there was shame in that. Shame that Will'd leave him tied to the post and go inside and beat on Eleanor anyway. Shame that Daryl wouldn't get off the post till he could will his aching arms high enough; couldn't get inside until the familiar surges of shock has passed through his system and he could move again. The next morning he'd limp to the corner store and swipe a bottle of whiskey and put a piece of bark between his teeth and let the whole thing run down his back, sterilizing the wounds the only way he could reach. And he'd save enough that he could go home and do the same to Ma and hope Pop'd give them a chance to heal before going off again.

He looks at his ma—both their scars long closed, if not healed; her second chance lying comatose in the bed beside her, Daryl the only thing left tying her to everything she'd rather not remember. Without him there's no reason for her to go back to that trailer. Without him she could take care of her fiance with her two new daughters and leave all the rest behind.

Daryl's all that holds her back. Him and the scars she gave him.

“Daryl Dixon,” she says, low, dangerous, “you don't tell me I swear I'm gonna get outta this chair–”

“You don't need to know,” Daryl says. He jerks his head towards Hershel, anger building in his gut too. “Ya got something more important to deal with now. The rest don't matter.”

“It _does_ matter, Daryl, you–”

“Never mattered back then!” Daryl yells, patience finally spent. “You gotta've been blind not to see what was goin' on, Ma. Blind and fuckin' ignorant.”

Eleanor gapes. “You can't talk to me–”

“I'll talk how I fuckin' want to, Ma,” Daryl growls. “You wanna know the things Pop did to me while you were drunk off your ass? You wanna know what he would'a done to _you_ , if I hadn't been there? You wanna know where you'd be now if I didn't take care of you? Take a few flights down the the fuckin' morgue. There's plenty'a women like you, Ma; y'ain't some fucking martyr just cause you survived it.” Daryl swallows, hard, painful. “I needed you,” he says, voice cracking. Somehow, he doesn't care anymore. “I watched all those movies about soldiers in pain callin' out for their mamas cause it brought 'em comfort, and I _couldn't._ Cause you were the reason it was happening to me. That's why I didn't tell you, alright? Cause I loved you too fucking much.”

The heart monitor beeps. Hershel's lungs billow and blow. Daryl realizes at last how loud he's been and he wonders if he's just lucky enough for that nurse from before to decide to come by, find him terrorizing another defenseless woman. The thought doesn't make him feel angry like it should. It just makes him feel tired.

Ma is staring at him, mouth working and no sound coming out, and the sight's so pathetic that Daryl turns to look at the beach. Remembers the sound of those nighttime waves in Atlanta, beating upon the boardwalk, upon the shore. Thinks that maybe he'll take himself there, someday, when it's too dark to do anything but drown.

“I hope Hershel gets better, Ma,” Daryl says, throat thick, heavy. “I really do. He's a good man. He's good for you. He'll take care of ya.”

“Daryl–”

“Cause I'm done with that, Ma. I'm done with it.” He looks at her, sniffs in sharply. “I can't be your mother anymore, Ma. I can't.”

“I never asked you to be,” she whispers.

Daryl closes his eyes, swallows harshly. When he opens his eyes he's glaring through tears and it breaks the room into a kaleidoscope like the sea.

“You didn't have to,” he says. “I loved you. You didn't have to.”

* * *

He almost expects to find Beth outside the room when he exits; forces himself not to feel the disappointment when she isn't.

It isn't her job. She ain't his mom either.

He briefly considers not returning to the waiting room. He has his jacket, his wallet and keys. He could go to the parking lot and drive home. He could drive to the old trailer park, burn it down like Ma tried to burn herself, all those years ago. He could drive to Savannah and walk into the waves and never come back.

But there's a tether here. A tether he fought tooth and nail to keep untied. But it draws him forward one step at a time until he sees her again.

She's sitting alone. There's a copy of a magazine in her lap; something for pre-teens, so he suspects Maggie got it for her. Maggie is pacing the length of the room, back and forth and back and forth. Beth isn't paying any attention to her, but Glenn is. He looks dizzy, and Daryl is briefly glad they're the only ones in the waiting room.

“Everything alright?”

Daryl looks up, realizes they're all looking at him now. Beth and Maggie and Glenn. It was Maggie who spoke, a severe frown writ into her brow. He knows she doesn't like him, but there's something more there. He wonders if the nurse got to her.

“Yeah,” Daryl grunts, avoiding Beth's searching gaze. “Your dad's fine. Ma's with him.”

“I meant with _you_ ,” Maggie says bluntly. “You look terrible.”

“Maggie,” Beth says softly.

“Nothin' to do with you,” Daryl mutters, going to sit a seat away from Beth. He feels her eyes on him and he closes his eyes, fighting the urge to say fuck it and remove that empty seat; let her pull his hand into her lap and his head onto her shoulder and let him lose himself in her warmth and her scent.

But Maggie's watching. Glenn is watching. And Beth isn't his mom.

There was no conversation when he came in, and there's no conversation now. Just the sound of Maggie's pacing on the worn out carpet, the whir of the air conditioning, the muted garble of CNN playing on a flatscreen in the corner. Daryl watches it for a while; not really taking in any information, but entertaining his eyes with the moving pictures. Letting his gaze slip across the screen with the crawl, again and again and again until the colors begin to bleed into the rest of his vision.

He's vaguely aware of Beth breathing near him; is surprised that he can pick the sound out at this distance, with all the other background noise. But just like it took time to learn the forest, he's spent enough time with her to know the sounds her lungs make—when she's calm, when she's aroused, when she's happy.

This sound is something new; something he knows he's heard before, but has never paid attention to. He hasn't wanted to; all the other sounds in his head, all the other times he's taken these exact same breaths—he's drowned it out. Drowned it like an unwanted cat.

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye, pretends to be drawn by Maggie's pacing. She's sitting with her feet shoulder-width apart, knees pressed together. Her back is bowed, shoulders hunched. Her hands seem to be taking up all her attention; twisting the bracelets on her wrist, picking at her nail-polish and then the fingernails themselves. Daryl can see little sparks of red trickling from her cuticles, but she doesn't seem to notice; just keeps ripping away, breaths slow, filling her chest and exhaling in a rush, brow furrowed and mouth pinched.

Daryl looks away, squeezes his eyes shut when he almost meets Maggie's gaze. He can feel it building in his chest, the urge to flee. There's no reason for him to stay. His presence won't help Hershel one bit; definitely won't make his Ma feel better. There's Beth, but as long as Maggie and Glenn are here he won't dare go near her. And even if he did, they'd have to deal with what happened in the lobby, and what happened–

“Hey, uh, if you guys don't mind I think I'm going to go to the cafe and get some coffee.”

The room jerks like it'd been hit by an earthquake; Maggie pauses mid-step and Beth jumps and Daryl's head whips up with the adrenaline in his veins. But it's just Glenn; looking at Maggie and the rest of them and mouth twisted in chagrin at the discord he's caused.

“Uh, well. Thought I could pick it up for you guys, but... anyone want to come with me?”

Silence reigns again. Maggie looks at Beth and Beth looks down and Maggie's brow furrows even further.

“I'm gonna stay,” Maggie says. “I don't want to miss anything, if Dad...” Beth hunches even further into herself, and Maggie stops talking. She swallows. She turns to Daryl. “Daryl, why don't you go?”

Beth looks up. She looks at him, and for all his struggle he can't make himself look away. There's something in her eyes he's never seen before, like a begging, like a... he can't think about it. He doesn't want to think about it. Beth isn't his mom.

“You can help Glenn carry stuff,” Maggie continues.

“Sound good, Daryl?” Glenn asks.

Daryl holds Beth's eyes a moment more. She isn't his mom.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. He nods, and stands, wincing a little as his back twinges. Almost laughs, then, because he's old—god, he's old, and here he's been, daydreaming about a teenager's cunt. Sniping with his mother. 35 years old and he's in the waiting room of a hospital for a man he's known mere months, a man who, whether he lives or dies, is likely about to fuck up his ma's life all over again. Would make Merle's day, this would.

Except he doesn't know if it would. He hasn't heard from Merle since that night on the farm either. Doesn't even know where Hershel sent him. Has barely thought of him since then; not through the haze of Beth he's been living, the way she clogs up his senses and leaves him blind.

Blind enough to follow Glenn from the room without looking back; blind enough not to pause when she whispers his name as he passes.

She is not his mother. And she didn't ask.

 


	27. Miles to Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl is used to feeling ignorant; but rarely before has his ignorance felt this dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been reviewing. If you're curious, I wrote a bit of [meta](http://bethgreenesgirlgang.tumblr.com/post/136895534015/in-defense-of-eleanor-dixon) about Eleanor in the last chapter; I hope you get a chance to read it.
> 
> Warnings for skin picking and discussion of suicide.

Glenn doesn't say anything the short elevator ride down to the cafeteria and Daryl is happy to oblige him. Spends it looking at the button that would take them in the opposite direction, to the roof. Wonders if you can get up there without a key. Wonders what Atlanta looks like, what the world looks like, with that kind of view.

The cafeteria is arranged buffet-style with a small cafe counter in the corner. The line is longer than Daryl expected it to be; although, he supposes it's around nine or ten at this point. Anyone planning to stay up all night next to someone dying would be jonesing for a cup around now.

“Guess everybody decided to get sick at the same time,” Glenn says, laughing nervously. Daryl glances at him, then looks away, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he moves to join the line. Glenn follows meekly behind him, and they stand, again, in silence.

And Daryl doesn't want that. For the first time in his life—aside from Beth—Daryl is with a near-stranger and he doesn't want to be there quietly.

Daryl has worshipped his silence. It means his pop isn't stomping around drunk; it means his ma isn't crying; it means Merle is passed out somewhere and isn't about to get in a fight with Ma or drag Daryl out to do something damn stupid. It gives him the space he needs, and the safety; sometimes it feels like there are so many thoughts pinging through his head, any extra stimulus will make his skull fly apart. He relishes people like Glenn, cowed by his dirty leather and mean glare, too scared of him to draw too much of his attention.

But something's different. Or something's changed. He needs someone entering him. He doesn't feel like he's enough to contain himself anymore.

“How long you been with Maggie?” Daryl grunts.

Glenn actually jumps at the sound of Daryl's voice; Daryl peeks out of the corner of his eye and can see him looking at him incredulously. It makes Daryl shift on his feet a little, the thought that the minimum amount of human interaction might be surprising from him. He knows it is; but he doesn't know why it bothers him now.

“Uh, two years next month,” Glenn says.

“Knew her long before that?”

“Uh.” Glenn chuckles nervously. “Not really. She came into the pizza place drunk one night and pretty much jumped me. I could have been anybody.”

Daryl glances at him, eyebrows raised. “Still together, though.”

“Well, we went for coffee after that.”

“Hmm.”

Silence reigns for a few more minutes. They move up another spot in line.

“Her family is so great, you know,” Glenn says suddenly. “I mean, I love Maggie, obviously, but her family is something else.”

Daryl bows his head, looks down at his scuffed boots. There is dirt on them; there is still dirt on them, from before, from the woods. He realizes suddenly that he and Beth didn't check each other for grass stains beyond picking leaves out of their hair. He wonders if Maggie is as perceptive as her sister is.

“It's so different without Annette and Shawn. They were—“

“Mom and brother, I know,” Daryl says. In saying it he realizes he hasn't thought about them for a while, except for the rare moments when Beth brings them up. He's been in the house, of course; passed his eyes over pictures containing a blonde woman and a brown haired boy, tall and sturdy. There was one with Shawn scrunching up his nose while Beth stuck her tongue out towards his face that Daryl turned away from quickly. But beyond that...

“I can't believe they're going through this again,” Glenn says. “I'd only just met Maggie when Annette got sick, but I was coming with her to the hospital by the end of it. To replace Jimmy, I guess.”

That perks Daryl's ears up, and her turns to Glenn with a glare.

“Jimmy?”

“Uh, yeah,” Glenn says, eyes darting around as if searching for help. “Maggie said you met him. He and Beth were a thing for a while. Or they weren't. I don't know. He was always around. But as it got closer to the end, and after Shawn, I don't think she wanted him there as much anymore.”

Daryl grunts and turns away, trying to calm the churning in his gut. He was right, then—Jimmy and Beth had been together. That little creep hanging around her, can't even grow a beard yet...

His thoughts are interrupted as Glenn keeps talking.

“Your mom's really nice,” he says. “She's like Annette, in some ways.”

Daryl looks at Glenn out of the corner of his eye, crosses his arms across his chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Always wants to be sure everyone's comfortable. Loves her family like hell.” Daryl can feel Glenn looking at him, expecting a response. He doesn't give him one. “You looking forward to the wedding?”

“How you know there's gonna be a wedding?”

“I don't see them breaking up—“

“Kid,” Daryl says, turning to Glenn, “The man just had a heart attack. You that sure he's gonna make it?”

Glenn looks back at him, stunned. “I mean... I... I guess not.” Glenn furrows his brow. “But what makes you think he isn't?”

Daryl snorts, turns away, steps up in line. “Ma ain't never got nothing she wanted in her life,” Daryl says. “Ain't likely to start now.”

“That could change, couldn't it?”

Daryl closes his eyes. Breathes in deep. Taps his dirty boot on the floor.

“Ain't worth the trouble hoping.”

That sends Glenn quiet again. This time Daryl's glad for it.

There's some sort of trouble with the coffee machine, backing up the orders. The people in the line grumble, but no one leaves.

Daryl watches them covertly, from the corner of his eye. There's no median between them—they're all ages, all walks of life, it seems. A cross-section of humanity in the Grady Memorial coffee line, waiting for their lives to be put back together.

He remembers it, that one time he came to this hospital. How fast his heart beat as he manhandled Ma into the car, how his throat scratched as he yelled at Merle to get his ass down there, threat of cops be damned. He'd seen his ma comatose plenty of times, but never like this. How slow she was breathing. The pin-point size of her pupils, when he peeled her eyelids back to look. The blue that spread like blush from the center of her lips and fingernails, tinging her the color of a corpse.

Daryl was no stranger to anxiety, or panic, or fear; feeling these emotions for his mother, least of all. But so long after his dad'd been gone, when they were supposed to be safe, when all he should have worried about was spilled vomit and shattered glasses and the door left unlocked–

Merle grumbled about it, but he drove. Grumbled less than he would have, if Daryl's hold on his ma's hand had been any looser as he sat with her in the back seat, propping her up so she could breathe, his own breaths coming short and shallow. He never liked reading much but he'd read first aid books back to front and all that information flew out of his mind the moment he saw his ma surrounded by pill bottles on the floor.

They were so different, these clean white walls; the gently humming machinery, the doctors in their flowing white coats, nurses pressed and prim. They took Ma from him like it was a matter of rote; probably took one look at the three of them, knew what the problem was before they even opened their mouths. Merle, thank God, stayed quiet; he was in the wrong and he knew it, and Daryl made _sure_ he knew it in the glares he sent from his mother's side as she breathed heavily through the intubator, eyelids fluttering as she stumbled back to life.

There were no sorry's; no promises not to do it again. She woke and looked at Daryl at her side and closed her eyes again like she'd been denied something.

He thinks of his ma, up in that hospital room; with Hershel, but alone for all of that. He wonders, suddenly, why Maggie isn't in there with her. No one had been opposed to him going in; didn't seem like there was a one at a time rule or anything. But there was Maggie, leaving her almost-step-mother alone in a hospital room with her maybe-dying father, pacing in the waiting room while her boyfriend watched and her sister sat and Daryl went in to confront his mother alone.

H glances at Glenn, and wonders if he should ask more about Annette and Shawn. About what the Greene family went through before he knew them. About why they looked at this hospital as if it were haunted, why Beth changed into someone he didn't know the moment she set foot in this place—

He can't think about Beth now. He can't. Her family's here, and they're here for her. He walked in on his ma and berated her for her mothering skills while her second chance at life lay motionless in his hospital bed. He asked for her ire, and he wanted it. Beth doesn't need him for any of this.

The line is moving again and he thinks of Beth's eyes. Thinks of them wide, in concentration or curiosity or wonder or–, or panic, or panic now, he knows what she looks like when she's panicking and he doesn't want her to look at him like that ever again. Like there's some wall between them that he can't breach even as he holds her tight.

She isn't his ma. She's young. And it's not just that she's younger than him; she's _young_ , in a way that years can't counter. She's still got the space to hope, the time for it.

Hell, she's helped him hope again. Maybe he ought to consider doing the same for her.

It isn't until they order—Glenn getting coffees for himself and Maggie, Daryl a green tea with honey—that Glenn speaks again, so suddenly that Daryl's heartbeat leaps.

“Listen, man, I know I don't have any authority over you or anything, and we've only met twice, but...” He trails off under Daryl's glare. “What?”

“You sure as shit don't have _authority_ over me,” Daryl growls.

Glenn swallows, and Daryl expects that to be the end of it. But he continues.

“Just... don't talk that way to Beth, ok?”

Daryl feels a spike of annoyance that this kid presumes to know what's better for Beth than he does. It doesn't matter that he's known her longer. Daryl's the one she went into the woods with. He's–

“I just don't want it to happen again, you know?”

The barista sets their drinks on the bar, but Daryl doesn't pick his up yet. He frowns at Glenn.

“What happen?”

Glenn's eyes widen. He glances around as if to check if anyone is listening. “You know...” He makes a sawing motion at his wrist. “What happened. No one told you?” Daryl blinks at Glenn's arm. He blinks again, looks him in the eye. Glenn blanches. “Shit, I didn't know it was a secret–“

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Daryl asks, voice thick and hoarse.

“Shoot, ok, you know, we can fix this–“

“Glenn.”

“–shouldn't have heard it from me–“

“Glenn!” Daryl shouts, reaching forward to grasp his bicep. Glenn freezes—along with the rest of the cafeteria, but he doesn't care about them. He doesn't care. “What'd Beth do?”

Glenn looks down at his arm, but Daryl doesn't let go. He doesn't move. He doesn't blink.

“She cut her wrist,” Glenn says. “After her mom died. She tried to kill herself.” Glenn shakes his head. “You really didn't know?”

Daryl can feel Glenn's heartbeat pulse under his hand, steady and fast. It reminds him. It reminds him of the Moonshiner, near the end, when she'd flung herself across the table like some stumbling drunk offering, dress flapping around her dangling legs. How he'd wrapped his hand around her bicep and his hand went all the way around, fingers meeting thumb around the skinniness of her limb. The arm grew impressively when she flexed, impressive enough for him to notice; but he didn't let her go. He held her arms and he steered her out of there and holding Glenn feels nothing like that, nothing at all.

He had steered Beth from the bar to his car. Now, standing still, it feels like Glenn is steering him.

“Daryl?” Glenn asks, leaning closer, brow furrowed in concern. “You ok, man?”

“I didn't know,” Daryl says. “She didn't...” he swallows. “No one told me.”

“I mean, it _is_ kind of private,” Glenn says, forcing a laugh. He looks at Daryl, grin twitching awkwardly on his face. “You, uh, you planning on letting me go any time soon?”

Daryl drops his hand; or his hand decides to drop, because there is no thinking involved on his part. His mind is silent. Blessedly, horrifically silent.

“We should bring these drinks up before they get cold, right?”

Daryl blinks, brings Glenn back into focus. Daryl looks past him, sees the eyes on them, just like in the lobby, just like when Beth–

“No,” he says. “No, let's go. Let's go.”

* * *

When they get back everything is exactly the same.

Not exactly the same. Maggie is sitting next to Beth, holding her hand. Beth's head is bowed, looking at her other hand in her lap. Using her thumb to pick at the bleeding cuticles, picking, still picking, even as the rest of her sits so still. Daryl can see Maggie's mouth moving but he knows Beth well enough to know she isn't paying attention; is in her own head, her own world, a place that no one can touch her.

“We come with sustenance!” Glenn says, lifting the pair of coffees he holds in his hands. Maggie looks up; when she sees him, a small smile slides onto her face. Beth glances up, then back down. Head low. Still picking.

Maggie gets up and goes to Glenn to kiss his cheek, take her coffee and the bag of muffins that Daryl hands her. She's saying something to her boyfriend, thanking him; saying the same to Daryl. Sitting on the two-person bench a few seats away from Beth. Pulling Glenn down beside her to dig into the bag. Asking Beth if she wants one, frowning at the shake of her head. Returning to Glenn, sipping her coffee, leaning into him.

Daryl stands at the entrance to the waiting room, palm tingling with the heat of the tea. CNN is still playing. The mindless hum of the air conditioning picks at his temples, sets his nape aflame.

Beth pulls both hands into her lap, clasps them tight together. Looks up, towards her sister, watches her for a few moments, gaze absent. Her eyes flick to Daryl, then away. She slumps against the seat back, shoulders trembling a little as she draws in a breath.

It was only a few hours ago in the forest when Daryl walked silently through the brush, avoiding twigs and drying leaves and drifting as close to a ghost as he could be; to leave not a shadow, not a trace of himself for anyone else to follow. He walks this way across the cheap carpet; inoffensive blue, like the walls of Hershel's room—although a different shade, like the sky and the sea.

It takes Beth a long time to realize he's standing in front of her, and when she notices she startles a little, fingernail jumping to catch on a strip of loose skin. Her bracelets tinkle as they bump against each other. She looks up at Daryl, blinking blankly. He looks down at her, blinking back.

He manages a smile; a small one, but he manages it. He holds out the tea, hand shaking only a little.

“Got this for you,” he says softly, quietly enough that Maggie shouldn't be able to hear more than a murmur. “Said you liked it.”

She blinks, then reaches up to take the drink, lowering it to her lap. She looks at it; brings it to her nose, takes a sniff. Her lips twitch, but that is all.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Y'alright?”

She doesn't bother responding. She doesn't even look up.

He takes the seat beside her, lowering himself gingerly so his jeans don't squeak against the vinyl. His shoulders are broad enough and the seats close enough together that his upper arm brushes hers. He looks at her profile, bent over the tea. The slope of her nose, the arch of her brow. Her lips, eyelids, trembling.

He reaches beneath the armrest and brushes her leg with his fingers. At first she doesn't respond, continuing to sit; but he does it again, nudging, insistent. She looks at his hand, then up into his eyes, asking the question.

He nods. “C'mon,” he says.

He doesn't say anything else. She doesn't say anything. But when her hand comes up between the armrests to brush him back, he threads his fingers with hers. She gasps in surprise at how tight his grasp is; looks at him again, the question in her eyes. He holds her gaze, swallows; brushes his thumb across hers. Feels the ragged edges.

“Y'alright?” he asks again.

She draws in a breath. She lets it out. She doesn't hesitate and she doesn't cry.

“No,” she says.

Her wrist, covered in bracelets. There was so much else of her to look at. He didn't know.

He holds on.

 


	28. How We Keep Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that he knows a little more about Beth's past, Daryl's whole perception of her is shaken—but not any more so than she is. The man who Beth has always seemed to take care of now needs to take care of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of past suicide attempt, and more skin picking.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

Daryl comes awake to something pressing on his shoulder. It's firm, and insistent, but somehow he doesn't want to rouse. His hand is warm, warmer than it should be, and his head rests on something with a covering almost pillow-soft. He's sitting up and there's a cramp in his spine but it doesn't bother him much. He turns his head and breathes in what he's lying against, feels whatever tension's left in his chest unknot and loosen. He's safe here. He feels safe.

But that nudging continues, and it's annoying, and something in him remembers that nothing is as safe as it seems.

He opens his eyes and sees Maggie Greene frowning back.

He shifts his weight and the vinyl squeaks and he remembers. He's in Grady Memorial Hospital. Hershel had a heart attack, his ma is with him, he went with Glenn to get coffee and Beth–

He turns his head, lifts it a little, fills his vision with blonde hair and her little body as curled into him as it's possible to be with armrests between them. Their hands are still joined where their thighs press together, palms sweaty and sticky from being bound for so long.

“Daryl,” Maggie says. “Can I talk to you?”

Daryl glances at her and nods, then turns back to Beth; begins to extricate his cramped fingers as he uses his other hand to keep her steady as he moves his weight. He wishes he could lean her against a wall or something; the best he can do is rearrange her, pull her legs out from under her and press her against the seat back so her chin lolls against her chest. She wakes in the middle of it, murmuring, and he shushes her, waiting until she seems as comfortable as she's gonna get before standing. His leg is asleep and he nearly stumbles, but catching up with Maggie as she strides out of the waiting room wakes it quickly enough.

He meets her in the hallway by the vending machine. She's tapping her foot waiting for him to catch up, and he feels a spike of annoyance at her presumption that he's at her beck and call; but, then again, the position she found him in with her sister does give her some leverage.

He stops in front of her, still blinking the sleep from his eyes, rubbing his sweaty palm on his pants and shoving it in his pocket to keep it from trembling with loss.

Maggie's look is inscrutable. She looks a lot like her father in this moment.

“Whasit?” Daryl asks, holding back a yawn.

Maggie stares at him a few more moments, and even his sleep-fogged brain begins to grow nervous.

“I didn't know you and Beth were so close,” she says.

Daryl bites the inside of his cheek viciously as he wakes in a moment, mind crystal clear as Maggie scrutinizes him, asks him about his relationship with her sister.

He forces himself to shrug, to lean on the wall, be casual; treat Maggie like one of the girlfriends he'd meet while Merle dealt with their old men. He's bored. Got nothing invested in this. Could walk out of here any moment and neither of them would be poorer for it.

But Maggie isn't some tweaker's girlfriend and this isn't a moment he can walk away from. He doesn't think he ever could have.

“We hang out a bit,” he says. The words jumps into his head, and he hates himself. “She wanted 'bonding time' or some shit.”

Maggie snorts, shaking her head. “Sounds like Beth,” she mutters.

Daryl wonders what she means by that, but keeps his questions to himself. He can ask Beth later.

“You were busy with Glenn and she looked lonely so–”

“That's why I wanted to talk to you,” Maggie butts in, head coming up to look him directly in the eye. He's surprised to find not a little bit of guilt there. She opens her mouth, then closes it. Crosses her arms and leans a bit out of his space. “Being here isn't good for Beth; I know she wants to be around in case anything happens, but I talked to the doctor and he said Dad's out of the woods. Or he should be.” Maggie swallows, then leans forward, eyes intent, tone unapologetic. “I need to stay. Dad needs someone here besides Eleanor.”

Daryl knows he should probably be offended, but he isn't. He knows how cloying ma can get when she's worried, and Maggie seems the type who can handle a crisis. His ma always needs someone.

So he nods, and Maggie relaxes a little. Looks at him in a reconsidering light.

“Beth needs to get out of here, but I don't want her alone.” She gives Daryl a pointed look, and he realizes that Glenn must have told her what he told Daryl. Daryl doesn't know how he feels about that, especially when Beth herself doesn't even know he knows. “Glenn's gotta go to work soon—he's taken enough time off for me as it is, I ain't letting him lose any more hours—so I was wondering if you could take her home. Keep an eye on her.”

Daryl remembers the last time he was alone on the farm with her. The couch, holding her foot, seeing her room, holding her—just holding her. He didn't touch her at all that day, not the way he'd been dreaming. Hasn't touched her that way since they were alone in his bed, the morning after Aaron's party.

Twice. Twice, he's been with her like that. After the Moonshiner, and after the party. For all his dreaming of it, he'd think they would have done it more by now. But it doesn't bother him; not as much as it would Merle, he's sure. Merle would be all up on his ass, asking how many times they'd done it, where, who'd seen them. Asked for her panties as proof, ribbed him to kingdom come.

But Merle isn't here. And Daryl wants her. Wants her badly, still—always, probably. And if Hershel hadn't had his heart attack they might have stayed in the woods into darkness and he would have touched her and maybe she'd touch him and it would have been alright.

But he held her. He held her, and that was enough.

He clears his throat, hope all this isn't showing on his face. Hoping he's becoming a better liar in the midst of all this.

“You're asking me to babysit?” he asks.

Maggie's mouth twitches. “You could call it that.” She sobers, looks at him intently. “Don't leave her alone. Please. Even if she goes to the bathroom, talk to her through the door or something. I don't want it—”

“To happen again. I know.” Daryl forces himself to stop his twitching. He forces his guards to lower, at least a fraction. He forces himself to look Maggie Greene in the eye and tell her the truth. “I'll take care of her, Maggie. I swear.”

It seems enough for Maggie. She breathes out, slow and heavy, and nods her head.

“Good,” she says. “Good. Let's go get her.”

* * *

Another car drive, another bout of silence. Par for the course it seems.

She seems a little better since they left the hospital, at least. Less wan, a touch more color. She still holds her body in that strange state of limbo—limp as a noodle and tense at the same time, tendons in her neck standing out even as her body sags. She hasn't looked Daryl in the eye since Maggie announced he'd be taking her home, and even then it was only a glance. A burning moment when she looked at him, and for a moment seemed to wake—and then fade, turning away to look back at the ground and rub at her bloody fingers.

She's still picking them as she sits beside him in the car, but not quite as violently. More like refining the work she began in the hospital.

He went through a bout of that, but it wasn't his fingers. After Merle left, when Ma was comatose and Pop beating him practically on the regular, he'd find his hands drawn to the wounds he could reach—his upper back, his arms. Some of them were shallow enough, they wouldn't have scarred; would have faded like blood into the forest floor.

But he was in a mood then. He didn't want it to fade. He was young and he was scared and he was waiting for the people he loved to come home to him.

The compulsion faded, in the end; replaced itself with shame for what he was doing, shame for what had been done to him. He grew older and he didn't _want_ Merle and Ma to know—kept the scars as a secret with himself and his dad and the hands that had once ravaged them.

He's never seen Beth picking at herself before, but he supposes nervous habits come up again—he wonders if it was this bad when her mom was in the hospital.

He wonders how long her mom was in the hospital. He wonders how bad the chemo went, whether Beth was around for the worst of it. He wonders when in all this she lost her brother too, and he wonders whether she sees any of Shawn in himself. Wonders if that matters.

He doesn't know who to talk to about this. Doesn't know if she's too fragile to ask, right now; if he should wait for Maggie, or even Glenn, to show up again and give him the details he finds himself suddenly ravenous for.

But they're family. They're supposed to be family.

He has to ask her. But not right now.

Their silence carries them all the way to the farm, down the long drive and up to the fairytale house. He remembers the disgust he felt the first time he saw it, the discomfort; how stepping inside was like traversing dimensions, with all that clean wood, swept floors. The girl on the stairs shouting out about her period like he had already lived with her for years.

And that's what it is, he thinks. She didn't think that she knew him—blushed when she saw him there to hear her, fled up the stairs fast as she could—but still. His presence didn't shake the foundations of the house. It didn't make the alarm bell clang to announce an intruder. She ran down those stairs speaking like she knew him. And she's known him ever since.

 _But not always,_ he thinks, watching her push open the car door as soon as they roll to a stop, start a sluggish walk towards the house. There are things she's done wrong. She's pushed him without meaning to, made him unsheathe his claws; pressed on wounds oozing and broken and continued to press until they exploded. She had to learn him, and he made it a damn hard job for her.

She's fumbling in her purse for the keys, and he's still in the car. And he wonders if this is the best place for her right now. Wonders if he should say 'fuck it' to Maggie's instructions, take her back to the woods, to a place empty of associations, of memories, of histories. Bring her to a place her dead mother never walked and her dead brother never spoke to her and she never had to listen to their ghosts.

She gets inside the door, and he gets out of the car. Follows in her footsteps, finds the door unlocked. Pushes it open, and locks it tight behind himself.

“Beth?” he calls.

No answer. He feels a pang of panic in his chest, but only a small one; she only just got here, there's nothing much she could have done. So he does what he's been trained to do. He stands still, body relaxed; hears the blood pounding through his veins, and tunes it out; tunes out too the twitter of birds outside, the last chirp of the crickets.

 _Dawn is coming,_ he thinks absently.

And there. He hears it. The creak of a floorboard upstairs, where he knows her bedroom to be. Where he went so recently when she was golden and happy and open and–

She wasn't happy, he realizes. Not really. She felt happy to him because she made him happy, whatever the expression is meant to mean. Content, then; she made him content. But she was quiet; quick to smile, but quiet. She's been like that for a while, he thinks; it's been building since their first time together, after Aaron's party. Every time he's seen her she's seemed less and less bright and he was too blinded by the after-image of her glow to notice.

He sucks in a breath; he lets it out slowly. He smells the old wood and the clean air and the homeliness that this place exudes. He doesn't see the demons in this place. He doesn't know where to find them. The Greenes don't leave it out with the rubbish, like the Dixons do; theirs lives in the walls, and the floors, and as he takes a step towards the stairs and the floorboards creak for a moment he thinks it's screaming.

He walks to her open door.

As soon as he sees her, he breathes an internal sigh of relief. She's alright—not really alright, he knows, but physically whole, and for now he'll take it—and standing at her open dresser, pulling out a loose shirt that she must use to sleep in. She's taken out her ponytail and stripped down to just her bra and jeans, and he gives himself a moment to look at her. Just a moment. See the way the pale skin flows into the denim, the shock of cotton decorated with pink and orange polkadots, the small mounds of her tits beneath. She's taken her shoes off, and her socks have little foxes on them, running and cavorting in some nameless field.

“Beth,” he says.

She looks at him for a moment, then pulls the shirt over her head, struggling a little to align herself with the holes, but doing it eventually. She reaches behind herself, then slips her bra straps from her arms before pulling it out the bottom of her shirt and dropping it unconcernedly on the floor by her tee and flannel.

He thinks he should look away when she begins to unbutton her jeans; should have looked away the moment he knew she was undressing. But he watches, and if it weren't going towards full light outside his skin would be tingling with the similarity of the last time he watched her unawares. But she is aware, and she's doing nothing about it, so he leans against the doorframe and he watches. Watches the zipper come down, and the denim begin to descend her hips, her thighs, her calves. Watches her balance on one foot to tug her leg out, sock coming half off in the process; she leaves the sock as she continues with the other leg, and then all she's wearing is a soft cotton shirt and panties that wink at him when she moves—to grab a pair of lounge pants, and he's surprised that he doesn't find himself more disappointed at that. But still, he gets a few moments where she's stretching to pull on the pants and he sees her plain underwear, the way the cotton bulges against the swirls of her pubic hair. And then she's covered, and before he can look at her face she's walking to her bed and crawling beneath the covers and leaving nothing exposed but for a messy crown of gold.

He hesitates, and tries to know what she wants. Wonders if that whole scene had been an invitation or a silent plea to go; wonders if it had been anything beyond her shedding the cruelty of the past day and night, preparing herself for the oblivion of sleep.

He'd never been good at that, using sleep as an escape, simply because it was such false security; it could be broken in moments, by a kick or a yell or a thrown can of beer, and as a child he never slept anywhere comfortable anyway. He still retains that inability to sleep without the help of a beer or two, and even then he wakes as if he hasn't slept at all.

It's only with Beth that it's been different. With Beth there, he could sleep. He could drift, and be safe in it. Could wake slowly and calmly and huddled in a warmth that he didn't want to leave.

He wonders if it's the same for her, if she sleeps better at his side. She isn't used to sharing a bed with anyone; with Merle and his foghorn snoring as a former bed-mate, he wasn't bothered by her light breathing and shifting legs—but maybe something about him bothered her. Maybe he snores; maybe he talks in his sleep; maybe he kicks and rolls around and pushes her awake every few hours. And besides, she has her comfort; the bed she's known since childhood, a mattress likely bought new at a real store, rather than second-hand on the internet. She has the scents of fresh linen and the familiarity of home. He's something different; something to disturb that comfort. The best thing for him to do would be to bring up a chair and sit outside her door until she wakes.

But she asked to sleep with him, that first night. She was drunk as a skunk at the time, and likely horny as well; but she asked to sleep with him. Share his bed. She wanted to.

The worst thing she can do now is say no.

He steps into the room and closes the door, watching her carefully in case she makes some sign of opposition. She remains where she is, curled up, facing away from him, so he continues.

Kneels to unlace his boots, leaving them partially hidden behind her hamper in case someone sticks their head in and he has to hide. Keeps his eyes on Beth as he unbuttons his jeans; is as loud with it as he can be, giving her the choice. She doesn't move. His shirt goes as well, and he stands in his boxers, hard enough to be noticeable but not, he hopes, to offend; and after double checking that his dirty clothing is hidden enough he walks to Beth's bed and slips beneath the covers.

It's as soft here as he imagined it would be, that night he saw her touching herself, the day he spent exploring. The comforter is puffy and enveloping; the linens a mid-range fabric that caresses his skin like a million tiny hands. He can't help the sigh of contentment he gives as he settles in. She must have thrown the throw pillows off before he came up, because all there is is the pillow beneath her head; but he doesn't mind going without. He curls his arm up beneath himself, rests his head on his bicep; reaches his other hand out slowly, heading for her back but changing course to land in the hair fanning out behind her. He doesn't do anything to it; just lays his hand on top of it, feels the texture of the strands that already seems so familiar to him. She doesn't move to shake him off; hasn't moved at all since he joined her, not even to tense, and if not for her uneven breathing he would think she's asleep already.

But she isn't. She's awake, wandering somewhere through the beautiful head that fits so nicely in his palm; she's thinking about him, maybe, or her parents, or whatever it is people think about when they're back in the situation that made them want to kill themselves.

He tightens his hand in her hair; tangling it, just a little, around his fingers, being careful not to yank on her scalp. He knows she must feel it, but again, she doesn't acknowledge him; just sighs, and burrows deeper, and lies still again, breathing.

Breathing.

Still breathing.

And he hopes that he's somehow worthy of breathing with her.

 


	29. All We Can Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Abby for beta'ing and to the anon that spurred me to finish this :)
> 
> Warnings for brief references to suicide and marital rape.

He must doze for a bit, because one moment she's facing away from him and the next she's turned to lie face to face.

She's been crying. That's the first thing he can tell. They must have been silent tears, or he would have detected them; but her eyes and nostrils are red, the blue in her irises practically sparkling in contrast. Her hair is wild, pulled from his fingers and flung about her head. He wants to tell her she's beautiful but he doesn't know how she would take it.

“You took your shirt off,” she says.

If he couldn't see her lips he wouldn't have been able to understand what she said, she spoke so softly. But he does understand, and he frowns at her, surprised that that, of all things, would be the first thing she says.

“Yeah,” he says. “It's filthy. Didn't want it on your sheets.”

She smiles; a tired, small smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Thank you,” she says softly. She glances down at the pillow, scoots back a few centimeters. “You can share the pillow. If you want.”

Daryl hesitates. He doesn't know what kind of offer that is; if he ought to accept or not. But she's looking at him expectantly, wide eyes shimmering, and he slowly scoots himself closer, leaving only inches between them. She breathes, and he can smell the green tea he bought her. He wonders what she smells.

“I didn't think you'd stay,” she says.

He's worrying about what to do with his hands and almost doesn't comprehend what she says; when he does, he frowns, looks at her intently.

“Why wouldn't I?” he asks.

She shrugs, and doesn't answer; just looks down between them where her hand lies flat on the mattress, cuticles crusty with dried blood. Her eyes fill with tears and she bites her lip, curling her hand into a fist.

“I'm sorry,” she says.

He wants to touch her. He wants to touch her so bad he can feel her hair between his fingers and her cheek beneath his palm, but something about her seems untouchable in this moment; fragile, and far away.

“For what?” he asks.

“For this,” she says, looking at him. “Making you deal with this.”

He shrugs. “You gotta deal with it too,” he says.

She stays silent, staring at him like she doesn't quite know what he just said. She bites her lip, and a silent tear tracks down her cheek.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers.

“Beth–”

“I'm sorry.”

And then there's no space between them and she's pressing herself against him and all he can do is hold on; move his hands until they're wrapped around her as she burrows into him, forehead into his neck and hands in balls against his chest and he wishes he'd kept his shirt on so she'd have something to hold on to.

But she doesn't seem to need it. Lets him hold onto her as she shivers, not quite sobbing but not still either, knees drawing towards her chest until they bump against his thighs. He doesn't quite think she's crying; this feels more like the aftershocks of crying, when the body physically cannot go on; like when a man's knees buckle crossing the desert, or climbing a mountain. He runs his palm up and down her back and he doesn't think of the times he did this for Ma; when she was incoherent and sobbing and the only way to quiet her was to rub her back like this, lull her into silence. He doesn't think about the times leading up to those; usually pouring her liquor down the sink, in the later years. How she'd sob, then, how she'd blame him, how she'd fall asleep holding onto him.

But he isn't thinking about that. That isn't here right now.

“Beth,” he says into her hair, closing his eyes and breathing her in, the strange mix of her unwashed body and the fresh cotton of her pajamas. “Beth, ain't nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.”

“I yelled at you,” she whispers, breath puffing against his throat. “And now Maggie's got you here to babysit me and she's worrying about me and I feel so _stupid_ –”

“You ain't stupid.”

Beth laughs harshly, pulling herself up so she can see him. She's even more a mess now; a small river of mucus dribbles from her left nostril, shimmers at him in the building light of the bedroom.

“I shouldn't be feeling this way,” she says, throat thick. “It's supposed to be _over_.”

Daryl's chest clenches; the scars on his back tingle. And he touches her; brings a hand up to cup around her face, stroke back through her hair as she heaves.

“Nothing's ever over, Beth. Just–, just keeps happening in different ways, 's all.”

“Why?” she whispers, eyes darting between his.

“Way it is,” he says.

“I tried to change it,” she says. “I thought I could, with you, with...” She bites her lip, looks at him. “I was good for a bit. I was so good, and we were, and it was hard but I was _doing_ it—”

“Doing what?”

“Living,” she says. “I felt like I was alive for the first... like I hadn't...”

Her lips continue moving but no sound comes out, and he sees she's rubbing her wrist against the mattress; the inside of her wrist, over and over again, and how did he never notice.

He lays his hand over hers and she freezes. He feels her eyes hot on his face as he turns it over, hardly resisting, and he sees it; a single pale line, easily covered with makeup, snaking its way along her skin.

“Maggie told you,” she breathes.

“Glenn,” Daryl says. “In the cafeteria, we... he said I shouldn't talk to you a certain way. So it wouldn't happen again.”

“What kind of way?”

Daryl looks at her, looks away. Grinds his teeth together.

“Daryl–”

“That your dad ain't gonna make it,” he says. “Cause my ma ain't that lucky.”

Everything is silent; even the blood rushing through Daryl's ears seems to quiet as Beth takes in what he said. He looks at her and she's looking away and she looks so sad and he hates himself.

“But that's just Ma, it ain't...” Daryl swallows, presses his forehead to hers. “Ain't got nothing to do with you, Beth. Ain't got nothing to do with you.”

“It's my dad. It's gonna be my dad's wife. How's it got nothing to do with me?”

“Cause it...” Daryl swallows again, squeezes Beth's upper arm. “Cause nothing ends. You get that? Ma's how she is and you're how you are and you–”

“How'm I, Daryl? How are we different?”

 _Cause you're good,_ he wants to say. _Cause you're good and kind and you mean it when you smile and I never wanted to be anything for anyone till I wanted to be yours._

But he doesn't say that. It's not the kind of thing he can say, not now. Not when she's looking at him like he's got some kind of answer that all her family and all her friends don't. The fuck does he know? The fuck is he doing, in this bed with her?

 _Returning the favor_ , he thinks. _Changing the world for her too_.

“I dunno, Beth,” he says. “I dunno, you–, I dunno.” Daryl lets his hand slide from her arm, tangle in the fall of her hair. She doesn't look so desperate, now; more curious, wondering about what he's going to say. And what can he do but shake his head. “Jesus, girl, you turn me upside down.”

“What d'you mean?” she asks. He shakes his head again, and she puts her hand on his arm. When she speaks, her voice is urgent. “Daryl, what do you _mean_?”

“I dunno what I think anymore,” he says. “I... I never thought much of anything. Or I thought too much. But none of it was good.” He fists his hand in the ends of her hair. “Beth, I didn't... I didn't know. I didn't know that you...”

He trails off, and he sees a line of derision enter her eyes.

“That I tried to kill myself?”

“Yeah.” She begins to draw away from him and he grabs at her, pulling her back. “ _Yes_ , cause I thought... thought I had the monopoly on being fucked up, I guess.” He relaxes his hold on her hair; follows it to her scalp where he cups her head, pressing their foreheads together again. “And I wasn't ever sorry for it,” he says. “So you don't get to be either. Ain't how it works.”

“But it isn't like what you went through,” Beth says. “I mean, I... I don't know what you went through, you haven't told me much, but... but I can guess. But mine isn't anything like that. I don't have the right–”

“What was yours, then?” Daryl asks. She pulls her head back a little, and he lets her. “Cause I don't know that either. I don't...” he trails off, shakes his head. “I don't know anything about you.”

“You do,” Beth whispers. “You do, you've known me since... ever since you made me beat up that car, you've known me.”

“That ain't the same.”

“I don't care,” Beth says. She's pressing into him now, clutching his arm, rolling her forehead against his, breath coming in short gasps. “My mama died, Daryl. She died long and slow and horrible, and in the middle of it my brother died too. And then it was over. But it wasn't, cause there's Daddy and Maggie and you and...” She swallows, breath in hitches. “You're right. It doesn't end. Any minute it's gonna happen again. And it's the waiting, it's...” Her hand is in his hair now, tangled at the nape of his neck. Her grip is almost painful. “I chose to live. After that, I _chose_. I _did_. I'm not gonna try and kill myself again.” She breathes out a sob against his face. “But I want to. Every day, sometimes. Cause I'm tired of waiting.”

“I been waiting to die every day of my life,” Daryl says. “Shouldn't'a survived this long as it is.”

“That isn't true.”

Daryl snorts, hollow. “People've been telling me I shouldn't'a been born since before _you_ were born, girl. I ain't meant to be here.” He holds the nape of her neck, matching her hand on him. “But I _am_. You _are_. _We_ are, Beth.” Daryl licks his lips, and his heart jumps as her eyes follow the movement. They're both breathing heavily now, pressed together. “Didn't think there'd be a day I wasn't ready to kick it.”

“And now?” Beth breathes, ankle sneaking over to press against his beneath the sheets. Daryl groans out softly, washing her face. “You ready for it now?”

“Ready for something,” he whispers as their mouths fall together.

It's inappropriate. It's so inappropriate, he knows, to do this now; when she's raw and open and hurting, the sadness in her leaking through her pores, both of them confused and dangling and lost. Her father is in the hospital; his ma is with him in the hospital, and Maggie waiting alone outside for the call of something going wrong. And he's here with Beth; his mouth on her mouth, his fingers locked like cell blocks around the back of her neck, her hands grasping his face as their tongues tangle and their bodies collide.

He bites her lip and Beth whines, loud and hungry and throwing herself against him without hesitation until he's lying half under her on the bed, her legs straddling one of his thighs as she moans and grinds against him. She doesn't seem content with this, and pulls, and then he's covering her and kissing her into the mattress and it's like something in him has broken open and is leaking fire. Where moments before there had been space between them, now Daryl's whole front is a plane of coal, burning at the press of her hot little body. He holds her head in his hand and uses his elbow to press in on her back and he groans as her legs kick out to tangle with his, the cotton of her pajama bottoms sliding coolly against his bare thighs.

He knows how precarious this is—knows he shouldn't have stripped down to his underwear in the first place, the fuck was he doing, not getting her sheets dirty, jesus _fuck_ —but she's writing against him more fiercely than usual, fisting his hair, digging her jagged fingers into his back and her mouth, open for him and so wet and so _good_ under his as he licks against her, inside her, and then his hand is gripping her waist, sliding up her side until he's holding her breast, holding her tit through her thin sleep shirt with the little nipple pebbled so nice under his palm and she's pulling away to gasp and moan and he's hard enough to cut rocks.

“Daryl,” she moans as he kisses her neck, bites it when she presses in harder, lets out a whispery gasp as he feels her lock her legs around one of his thighs and grind her cunt against the muscle and she's _wet_ —she's wet herself through her panties and her pajama bottoms and all from being in bed with him. “Daryl, please, I gotta, _please_ —”

“Alright, Beth, alright, alright,” he whispers against her neck, abandoning her breast with a squeeze and bringing his hand down and just like the first time sliding right between her legs.

“Ah,” she gasps out, neck arching as he lets her grind into his palm, hips moving almost too fiercely for him to separate her lips and slide his fingers between her drenched folds.

“Christ, Beth, you're _soaked_ , jesus–”

“For you, please, for you,” she whispers, bucking her hips again until he has to bring his other hand to hold her down, pinching bruises into her hip that make her keen even louder.

And then he doesn't move. He keeps kissing her neck, but he doesn't move. Lets the weight of his torso press her into the mattress until he can feel her heart pounding through her shirt, hard and fast.

“Daryl, what–”

“Shh,” he whispers, taking her earlobe between his teeth, lipping at the cartilage and licking behind it, tasting all her sweat and all her grit. “Imma take care of you, girl.” She shivers beneath him, a live wire, clutching his bicep as he pulls his head back to watch her face as he finds her clit in her slippery mess. Her eyes close, and she swallows, and he feels her trying to roll against him but he won't let her. “Lemme take care of you.”

“Please,” she whispers, small, lost, and he slips a finger inside her.

He lets her move a little now; enough to match his rhythm, slow and dragging, in and out, thumb grinding against her clit on each pass and he sees every particle of it on her face.

This girl.

“God, Daryl,” she groans, guttural, arching her pretty neck and what can he do but kiss it, open his lips and taste her skin as his hand works, moving his finger inside her before adding another one and she _squeezes_ him, inside and out, and his hips buck desperately against the mattress.

Of course, her legs are still wrapped around one of his, and as he thrusts her leg rides up his thigh until she bumps his balls and the base of his shaft.

The air gusts out of him at the unexpected contact, and how good it felt, so _good—_ and for a moment he forgets himself; he buries his face in Beth's shoulder and tries to grind down again and then her leg is _there,_ just where he can reach, and the friction and the press of her yielding flesh—

He doesn't come to his sense until he feels her hand on his stomach, small and hot; and he doesn't stop moving inside her but he gasps and tries to lift himself up but that only presses his hips harder against her.

And her eyes are wide; so wide, and still red from crying, and she looks at him with so much desperation it almost breaks his heart.

“Please, Daryl,” she whispers, clenching around his fingers again, prompting him to crook them which gets a buck and a gasp out of her, and he doesn't know if he was trying to distract her or not because it isn't working; her fingers are at the waistband of his boxers and moving lower–

“No–”

“I wanna, Daryl, please,” Beth breathes, pressing her hand flat against his abdomen again, this time with the heel of her hand hard on his pubic bone, right above his cock where it strains and pounds. “I know–, I know you don't want me to and I'm _trying_ to understand why but _please_ let me touch you, please Daryl, I just want to feel you please–”

His fingers are inside her and she's tumbling towards incoherence and he finds himself shaking all over; shaking, shivering, because this beautiful girl wants her hand on his cock and the thought of that happening terrifies him.

But she's looking at him. And clenching the fabric of his boxers in her fingers, pulling at his pubic hair as she does. And her eyes are red from crying.

“I don't...” he says, searching for the words with her under him, surrounding him, pajama shirt still pulled up beneath her armpit and baring her nipple for his gaze. “ _Beth_.”

“Tell me,” she whispers, and this moment has stilled somehow, become something else, and he's aware suddenly that the hand she wants on his dick is the one with that nearly-transparent scar. “Tell me why not.” He rubs his thumb against her clit; watches as she shudders. But she doesn't take her eyes from his. “Tell me.”

“Don't wanna take from you,” he says.

“You _can_ ,” she whispers, urgent now, fingers digging into his abdomen, “I want you to, god, don't you...” She's shuddering, all over her, shuddering, like his fingers inside her aren't enough, like her entire body is straining like the boner in his boxers, all of it, for him. She takes her other hand from his bicep and grips his hair and pulls their foreheads together, gasping when the movement pushes his fingers deeper into her. “I want you to take from me,” she whispers, “and I wanna take from you. Cause then we can give it _back_.”

“I don't want...” He exhales, harsh, watches her eyelashes flutter with it.

“Don't what? Don't want me?”

He barks at that. Barks, his laugh like a dog, barks like exactly what he is.

“No, Beth, god, I think... I think about you touching me all damn day.” He kisses her, squeezes her spread open pussy, breathes heavily in her face. It's hard, any day it's hard finding the words, but even harder with her sweet smell around him and _himself_ so hard, so exactly like everything his daddy ever did– “Don't want it,” he says. “Don't wanna be like them.”

“You _aren't_ ,” Beth says, arching against him as she says it, dragging her thigh against his erection and he knows she must feel the damp of his pre-cum. “I dunno who it is and I don't care but you _aren't_.” She kisses him, thick, feeling desperate and restless again as she tries to ride his hand. “You're Daryl Dixon and you're _good_ and I _want to touch your cock_.”

He swallows, heavy. Sees his dad dragging his ma towards the bedroom. Sees Merle at bars and grabbing his crotch and going off with women trailing behind him like a string of pearls–

But she wants to.

She wants _him_.

“I–, Beth...”

“Let me,” she says. “Let me, Daryl.”

“Alright.”

And then his boxers are down and his cock is in her hand.

He seizes up with a shout and for a moment he thinks he came. Came the moment she pulled him from his pants like some goddamned schoolboy.

But she's still holding him, and the tension hasn't gone away; and she's holding him, and she's gripping him, and she's _tugging_ –

“Fuck,” he grinds out, pushing his face against her shoulder, too much, too much as she slides down and back again and this time she comes up and over the head, palms him and sends such a spark through his groin that he _yanks_ at her insides, and she shouts too.

“God, you're wet too–”

“Fuck me, fuck, Beth, fuck, fuck–”“

It's all he knows anymore, that word and her name and as she strokes him he babbles it, babbles into her shoulder and then her neck as they roll together, his thumb strumming her clit and his fingers reaching for that spot inside her and her hand so small and hot and he never thought she'd be so strong–

“You can come, Daryl,” she says, “It's ok, you can–”

“You first,” he whispers, so muffled in her pillow, in her neck he doesn't know if she hears, but she feels the way his hand speeds up, fucking up into her until his fingers squelch inside her wetness and her clit is like a second thumb throbbing against his and her keens growing higher and higher in his ear until she shatters, jerking and moaning and squeezing his dick so hard he sees stars.

And she's still going. Still fisting him, faster and faster and spreading her legs wider so it's almost like he's fucking between them–

He's partially aware of her coming apart a second time when he explodes. And it's an _explosion—_ building in his balls and spreading through his limbs and shaking him until he thinks he's going to break as he squeezes his eyes shut and comes, comes, comes over her hand and her stomach.

And there isn't much after that.

Except there is.

Her breathing so loud in his ear. Her skin, sweat. The smell of sex, of her pillow. His hand shaking as he pulls it from her body. Rests it, trembling, soaking wet, on her pubic bone.

She's still holding him, he thinks. Not stroking him, but holding, squeezing a little with every tiny jerk of his hips. She jerks too, smaller than his. Trembles that roll through her and end in her cunt, pressing her up, pressing her towards him.

And then they lie and there's only breath. His chest to hers. Only breathing.

The sun is up, and they're still breathing.

 


	30. The Long Night is Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some pretty heavy conversations in this chapter, centered on attempted suicide. Please read carefully.
> 
> Also, I'm so sorry I haven't kept up with replying to comments. I'll do my best to get to them soon <3
> 
> Please let me know what you think!

Daryl doesn't understand how light works in this kitchen. It's a large space, yes, with corners and surfaces for sunbeams to catch, objects to glint from, gauzy curtains to filter through and separate into a shimmering dust that settles over everything. He knows, practically, how the light works, and why.

But watching Beth from his seat at the kitchen table—watching her in her fresh pajama shirt and pajama pants, hips swaying slightly as she works on whatever she's working on (she told him but with this view of her ass he finds he's forgotten)—it defies logic, how the light hits her. The way it catches in her hair, tangles with it, shimmers off the curve of her neck like her skin creates some light of its own. The laws of physics go out the window with Beth Greene.

He'd had the same thought in her bedroom. Coming back to himself—minutes later, _minutes_ , like her body and his orgasm had short-circuited something in his brain—and lifting his head, and seeing her shining in the morning light; light soft on the curve of her cheek, sparkling in her eyes where it hit her through the half-open curtains, drawing him in so that even with both their messes sticky between them he needed a moment, one more moment wrapped up in her brilliance—he wondered how the laws of the universe bent to accommodate this girl. How she warped the world around her.

And she does, he thinks as she hums a few bars of some song he doesn't know, sways her hips accordingly—and he could walk up behind her and take hold of those hips; press into her back and grind against her ass; he can do that now. But he's too content where he is, with the view he has—Beth Greene in the light of her kitchen.

“You don't gotta bake me a cake or nothing,” he says, leaning his jaw on one hand.

Beth laughs, shooting him a look over her shoulder that gets his heart stuttering. “You haven't given me enough orgasms to deserve a cake yet.”

Daryl snorts, taken aback and impressed all at once. Here is the girl that came to him blushing, drunk and fumbling and clingy as a baby sloth, and now she's teasing him. Goading him into taking her over the counter right here. Stopping whatever she's doing and sliding his hand into her pussy again and ruining another pair of bottoms.

But he doesn't. He sits and he watches her and when she turns around he doesn't pretend he wasn't looking.

“And what do I get with what I've given you?” he asks as she approaches him, a pair of steaming mugs in hand. She plops one in front of him, and the scent of home-brewed coffee rises to tangle in his nostrils.

“You get coffee,” she says. She smiles as she sits across from him, cheeks flushing prettily. “And maybe the chance to try again.”

Daryl's mouth quirks as he looks at her, looks at her shining. _She's happy_ , he thinks. _I did that. All the horrible things happening and I made her happy._

“Only maybe?”

“Depends how good you are in the meantime.”

Daryl snorts again, looking down at the coffee in front of him. It's in a mug shaped like a cow's head, the handle one of its ears. He looks at Beth, raising his eyebrows. She shrugs, raising her pig-shaped mug in return.

“Plenty of tag sales round here,” she says. Some of the teasing goes out of her aspect, even if the light continues to bend around her. “Mama loved tag sales. Dragged Daddy to them every weekend.”

“My mom too.”

Beth looks up at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He snorts, puts a hand over his coffee to see if it's cooled enough. “Drove Pop crazy, the shit she brought back. Was all dirt cheap, and some of it was nice, but she never got rid of none of it either. Couldn't walk through the place without tripping over her shit.”

Beth tilts her head, holding the pig mug between her hands. “You still have some of it?”

Daryl shakes his head. “All burnt up. Once we got to the trailer she was too trashed to go out, most days.”

He can feel Beth's eyes on him, and he drops his head, watching his coffee swirl in its mug, wondering how he feels about where this conversation is going. They didn't agree to do what he thinks they're doing; not in so many words, at least. Not with their voices. But maybe the time in her bed broke something open in both of them.

“That was the worst part for Mama,” Beth says. Daryl looks up. “Not leaving the house, or being able to drive on her own. Even before it got really bad, she wasn't supposed to be outside much. I think it killed her as much as the cancer did.”

“Think it would'a killed my mom too, eventually,” Daryl says softly. Beth nods, looking down at her mug—what Daryl presumes is tea. Probably green, with a drop of honey. “Does she like that about living here? Going outside?”

Beth smiles, nods. “Yeah. I think she really likes it. Spends a lot of time on the porch, or walking. We go walking a lot.”

Daryl raises his eyebrows. “You do?”

“Yeah.” Beth brushes some hair out of her face, sliding her fingertips across her cheek as she does. “When Daddy's working and she gets bored, she'll ask me to walk with her. It ain't no trouble. She seems to like the company.”

“Never been alone in her life.”

“I get that,” Beth says softly. She looks down at her tea, holds it by the handle and swirls it in its mug. “I've always liked being alone, but no one's ever _let_ me. Even when I sneak away, it's always 'Where's Bethy, where'd she go?'” Beth shakes her head. “I should be grateful, I know, to have people who care about me so much. But sometimes I wonder if...” She glances up at him, then back down, shoulders slumped low. “I wonder if I'd been more used to being left alone, if losing people'd've been easier. If I could'a been more like Maggie.”

“No one never paid no attention to me,” Daryl says. Beth looks up, and he feels his cheeks heating under her scrutiny, but he keeps talking. “Ma tried, but she had too much else going on. Merle, when he was around. Then when he was gone she left too. In her own way.”

“That must have been hard,” Beth says softly. “Them being there, but not.” She gives a small, mirthless laugh. “Least Shawn and Mama left for good. No coming back for them.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “Yeah.”

His coffee is cool enough to drink, and he sips it. It's too hot a day for these drinks, really—feels like it's already pushing 80—but with the night they had, and the morning, it seems appropriate. Seems they've both got some sweating out to do.

He looks at Beth sitting across from him. She's sipping at her tea, eyes down; tracing the grain of the table, maybe, or just drifting, floating across the surface and back to her own lap, then to her mug, then to him. He doesn't squirm beneath her gaze anymore, he realizes; he soaks it up, like the ground and the summer rain.

He wonders when that happened.

“I still don't know why I did it,” Beth says. She looks away again, but Daryl keeps his eyes on her, watches the minute twitching of her cheek, the way she brings her hand under the table to rub her wrist against her jeans.

 _Her scar_ , Daryl thinks. _Her scar's what she's rubbing_. He still needs to get used to thinking of her like that; like something that’s been scarred.

“There ain't always a reason,” Daryl says.

Beth looks at him, shoulders all hunched up. “You... you've ever wanted to?”

Daryl shakes his head. “Nah. Not seriously.” He grits his teeth, swallows. Works to keep his eyes on her. “Too used to living, I guess. Killing myself never seemed worth the effort.”

“Living's a lot of effort.”

“Devil you know.”

Beth is quiet for a few moments, stroking her hand absently up and down the pig's snout, curling and uncurling her fingers. The pajama shirt she changed into is just as thin as the first, and just as oversized; the way she's sitting, it's nearly falling off one shoulder. It makes her look even smaller than usual, shrunk down like a leaf without water.

“Ma tried, you know.” She looks at him in her shining kitchen, shimmering beneath its lights. “Lots'a times. Burned the damn house down, trying.”

Beth's eyes go wide and she blinks at him, owlish. “I thought that was an accident. She fell asleep with a cigarette–”

“She wanted it,” Daryl says. “She'd been thinking how to do it for days. I could tell. Could always tell. And she'd talk in her sleep sometimes. She wanted it.”

Beth's hands are trembling a little around her mug, he notices, and he wonders if they should be talking about this, especially now. She doesn’t need his ma's demons on top of her own; doesn't need his, for that matter.

 _I want you to take from me. And I wanna take from you. Cause then we can give it_ back _._

He wonders if that applies here too.

“I was cutting school,” Daryl says. His mouth quirks. “Did that a lot, you know.” Beth's lip twitches; just a little, but it does. “Don't know why I went home. Usually'd go into the woods, smoke pot or just wander. And I knew what Pop'd do, he caught me home early. No matter he thought an education wasn't for me.” Daryl shrugs, swirling his coffee, swirling. “But I went home, thinking I'd catch Looney Tunes on TV or something. And I saw the smoke, and I started running.”

“You were young,” Beth says softly.

“Yeah,” Daryl says. He rubs beneath his nose. “'S lucky Ma wasn't eating much those days. She was out cold, lyin' in bed like always. Practically had to drag her, in the end.”

“That's horrible,” Beth whispers.

Daryl shrugs. “Way it went.” He pauses. Looks at Beth. Looks out the window, where from here he can only see the sky, maybe a cusp of trees along the lower pane. The sun is shining brightly and he can only stand the glare for a few moments before looking away. “I was with her when she woke up in the hospital. Started crying when she saw me.”

He swallows, remembering. Remembering her face, pale as a ghost even with the IV filling her veins. How she'd looked at him sitting there at her bedside, the look of horror that filled her eyes. How the tears filled in slowly, spilled down her cheeks; how the sobs followed after, so violent she dislodged a machine and set it beeping, bringing the nurses that she screamed away, the sedatives she thrashed too hard to take. How she looked at Daryl where he'd taken her hand, pressed on her shoulder, begged her to calm down. How she pulled him down, forcing him to kneel half off the bed; how she cried, holding him to her chest, sobbing into his hair as he tried to hold her together.

_Why'd you save me? My sweet boy, oh baby, why didn't you leave me? Why'd you have to bring me back?_

He doesn't know how to say it, though. How to speak that kind of thing, his mom holding him and loving him and wishing he'd let her burn.

“Daryl?”

He blinks, and feels the tear fall this time; glance off his cheek before landing on the table, matching a pair of dots already beside it. He sniffs harshly, rubs just as violently at his cheeks. He doesn't want to look at Beth yet, and he doesn't; he doesn't want her to touch him either, and somehow she seems to know. He gets himself under control and takes a shaky sip of coffee, feels the acid all the way to the back of his tongue.

“It was bad,” he says. He doesn't like how thick his voice sounds, but he says it anyway. “Got worse after that, the day to day stuff. But that was bad.”

“You're so brave,” Beth says.

He looks at her this time, and she has tears in her eyes too; they don't fall, not like his, but stay there. Shimmer.

“Ain't brave,” Daryl says. “Got there early enough, flames weren't too bad yet–”

“That's not what I mean,” Beth says. She has her hands wrapped around her mug, shaking, shaking. “That's not what I mean.”

“Still,” he says softly, almost too softly to hear. “Ain't brave.”

“It is.”

He doesn't bother denying it again. He knows the truth, no matter what she says. What she feels. He knows.

But looking at her in the kitchen light; leaned halfway across the table, loose hair hanging like a golden curtain around her face, shirt brushing her stupid pig-shaped mug and that line on her wrist shouting at him for all the times he's let it been silent—

He still knows. But she knows something too.

So he shrugs, remains tense until her shoulders fall and she leans back; practically collapses into her chair, like he'd forced her to run a marathon. She's still looking at him with that split-open, ghostly expression, like she'd woken to find her sternum sliced and ribs cracked and her own insides winking back at her.

Then she shakes her head sharply, blinking to clear her eyes. She sits up straight, clears her throat.

“Sorry,” she says. “I don't know what you wanted me to... I'm sorry.”

“You didn't do nothing.”

“Still, I...” She clasps her hands together, almost like in prayer. “I'm sorry.” She stares at him for a few more moments, then her entire aspect changes; the lines in her forehead fall away and she laughs. Short and cynical and wrong-sounding, coming from her mouth, but she laughs. Shakes her head, hair dancing around her. “We'll never say all of it, will we? We'll never say all of it.”

“Do we have to?”

She quiets then, and her body stills. She looks at him. Her head tilts. She blinks.

 _Like a goddamn bird_.

“I want to,” she says. “To you, I want to.”

“You don't have'ta–”

“I want to,” she says softly. She looks at him, soft, unfathomable. She hesitates, then reaches her arm out across the table, palm up. Like an offering. Like a prayer.

He doesn't hesitate. He covers it with his, wraps his fingers around the sides of her small hand. It's strange to touch her in the flesh. He feels like he's been touching her this whole time.

She doesn't say anything as he holds her, and he doesn't either. They just sit there, looking at each other, their hands intertwined. They let their drinks go cold.

* * *

Beth is napping on the couch, Daryl busying himself looking at the family pictures on the wall so he doesn't sit by her side and look at her, when the call comes.

He's standing in front of a photo of Hershel and a woman who must be Annette at their wedding reception when his back pocket vibrates. He pulls it out quickly, checks the caller ID. Looks over to be sure Beth is still sleeping soundly before answering the call.

Before he can even say hello Maggie's voice is bursting through the speaker.

“Where's Beth?”

Daryl's brow furrows. “What–”

“I called her phone first and she didn't answer, she isn't–”

“Calm down, Woody Allen, jesus,” Daryl hisses, glancing over at Beth as if she could feel her sister's anxiety bleeding through the cell. “Her phone's upstairs. She's sleeping on the couch, I can see her from here.”

“Oh,” Maggie says. He hears her take a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Alright, well—can I talk to her?”

“Yeah, hold on.”

Daryl sets his phone on the far side of the coffee table before perching on the edge, hand raising to shake her shoulder. But something makes him pause. He looks back at the phone, then lowers his hand. Brings it to her face instead.

Her hair had fallen across her face as she slept, and he slowly sweeps it back, revealing her soft cheek inch by inch. Her hands are curled underneath her like a second pillow, her knees drawn in towards her chest. Her eyelids are totally still, her mouth open a little, lips fluttering as she breathes.

Daryl swallows. Holds her hair out of her face as he leans down to kiss her cheek; lets his lips linger, brush against her skin. She sighs softly, turning her face so more of it is exposed; he kisses her again, higher on her cheekbone, listens as she sighs again.

“Beth,” he says.

“Mmmh,” she murmurs, twisting more onto her back, exposing more of her face. Daryl swallows at the view he gets of her nose, her other cheek. Still holding her hair, he kisses her eyebrow, the bridge of her nose, her murmurs getting louder with every kiss until he feels her hand cover his and she turns her face upwards to meet his lips.

It's chaste as kisses go, Daryl supposes. Still, he's glad he's sitting down.

She breathes out against his mouth as she settles back against the pillow, eyes still closed as she licks her lips, sighs again. He holds his breath as her eyes slowly open, blinking a few times before sliding into a sleepy wakefulness, focusing in on his face.

She smiles. She sees him and she smiles.

“Hey,” she murmurs.

“Hey,” he says. “Sleep ok?”

“Weren't you watching me the whole time?”

Daryl knows she's teasing—she says it like she's teasing—but it still makes blood suffuse his face and his eyes turn from hers, fall to the slope of her throat. He should have kissed her there first, he thinks. If he does it now he knows he won't stop; will bury his lips in her neck, feel her fingers curl into his hair as she breathes out a sigh. Continue down into the dip between her collarbones, urge her onto her back with a hand on her shoulder that slides easily to her breast when she's turned; hear her sigh again, a bit of a whimper this time, as he kneads her flesh, watches the nipple rise up through her shirt until it's enough for his lips to latch onto; pull it into his mouth and suck through the fabric, getting her wet, taking her gently between his teeth and rolling—

And he remembers the phone on the coffee table. Remembers her dad in the hospital. But it doesn’t fill him with shame.

 _Later_ , he thinks. _Later_.

“Maggie's on the phone,” he says.

The smile slides off her face, and he sees a swallow work its way down her delicate throat. He sweeps his thumb across her cheekbone, then reaches for the phone as she sits up, hands it to her silently.

“Hello?” she says. Daryl watches her expression carefully, shoulders tense—and then she looks at him, her face slack with relief.

“Ok,” she says. “Ok, we'll be there soon. Thank you, Maggie.”

She presses the end call button, flips the phone closed. Closes her eyes and breathes, for a moment, two. Opens her eyes and finds Daryl. She smiles.

When she comes for him, he gathers her into his arms without a word.


	31. You Go Through Everything Twice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After receiving the good news of Hershel's recovery, Beth and Daryl arrive at the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless the end of the semester. Just bless it. I've missed writing this story so much and I hope you enjoy what I've written you now :)

She doesn't ask him; slides her hand into his as soon as he's pulled out of the driveway and doesn't let go the whole ride to the hospital.

She doesn't talk much on the way there. Looks out the window for most of it, the curve of her cheek almost flat in the pedestrian light of his truck, hair pulled into a low ponytail that falls over one shoulder, fluttering a little with the air conditioning. She isn't humming aloud, but he sees her throat working, and he imagines she's singing something silently. Every so often her hand tightens on his, and every time he squeezes back. The first time he does that she turns to smile at him and it doesn't hurt him to smile back.

It isn't until they enter the hospital—not holding hands, but walking close enough that they could—that Daryl feels the day fall away from them.

“Ms. Greene.”

They turn and look. It's the same nurse from before, the one who thought that Daryl was ready to do something horrible, and even though this day has cleared part of his conscience his shoulders still hunch up as she looks him over, frowns at what she sees. He still hasn't been able to change—Beth is in a fresh t-shirt and jeans but he's still in his filthy clothes from yesterday, and he wouldn't be surprised if the nurse could smell him over the antiseptic. Wonder, absurdly, if she can smell the sex too—the white he shot onto Beth's body and the wet she bled onto his fingers and the mingling of both of them alone in her bed. He'd always been able to tell when his dad fucked someone; he walked different, with more confidence, like with the emptying of his balls something had been assured. Daryl should have looked in a mirror before they left, but he was so focused on her, on the quiet smile on her face that seemed like something in her had surfaced from underwater, fought through the crush of the waves and breathed for the first time in hours. She had been relaxed when they emerged from her bed, loose, but still heavy. Her steps are lighter now, her fingers fluttering against his as the nurse looks them over, looks for the bruises on Beth's face.

“Hi,” Beth says, standing closer to him, their arms and knuckles pressed together even as his gut tells him to shrink away. “My sister called. She said my daddy–”

“He's awake,” the nurse says. She nods her head down the hallway. “We moved him out of urgent care. He's in 124. You should be able to see him.”

“Thank you,” Beth says, and Daryl makes the mistake of looking at her. She's smiling, wide and uninhibited and thankful, and Daryl feels like a bug that ought to crawl back under its rock.

“Let me know if you need anything,” the nurse says, and Daryl follows Beth down the hall.

Once they round a corner and exit the nurse's sight Daryl grabs Beth's arm, bringing her to a halt. She looks up at him, still smiling but confused and he lets go of her as soon as he can.

“Daryl?” she asks. “What's wrong?”

“I shouldn't be here,” he says.

Her face freezes, and as her smile slowly bleeds away Daryl thinks the hateful thought that Hershel should have slept longer, given him and Beth more time, more time to... he doesn't know. Not to fuck. To be. To be together, in the house she grew up in and shares with everyone she loves in the world like maybe for a few minutes he's one of them–

She's still looking at him and her head tilts and he feels the bile rise in his throat.

“What do you mean?” she asks. “You came with me, they can't kick you out cause you aren't blood or something.”

“No, I–” Daryl trails off, looks away from her eyes towards his boots. He sees her hand land on his arm before he feels it, and he fights himself not to flinch. She must feel the impulse in him, though, for she drops her arm, lets it swing at her side. He doesn't want to see her face. “It ain't right I'm here. Ain't right, not after we...”

He feels a change in the silence, and he chances a glance up. What he sees makes his stomach seize. Her face is set like stone.

“That's the problem,” she says, tone flat. “I touched you and I polluted you or something?”

“Beth–”

“My daddy's alive, Daryl, and I just wanna–, he's _alive_.” Her eyes dart across his face, expression growing sadder and sadder as they go. “I wanna share that with you,” she whispers.

“Cause he's gonna be my daddy too?”

“Cause _I_ wanna share it with _you_.” She's looking at him in open anger now, and something in him relaxes even as his stomach heaves. “I'm happy and I want you to be part of that and you're back to acting like we're sinning or something? You wanna be morally righteous, you don't climb into my bed.”

Daryl stays silent, and he watches the shutters close in her eyes.

“Ok,” she says. “Ok.”

She turns away and walks past him, taking an exaggerated curve so there's no possibility of touching him by accident. And the want to touch her hits him like a boulder. Just to put his hand on her shoulder, pull her back and into him and apologize even though he doesn't know what he's apologizing for, hardly knows what the problem is except he _is_ polluted, always has been, and a few hours feeling light as air isn't enough to fix that...

He isn't enough to fix anything.

He follows after her in silence.

They come to the sign that says 124 and Beth pauses before opening the door, turning half towards him like there's something she wants to say, to do. And he wants her to. God, he wants her to grab him by the shirt and haul him down and kiss him like her life depended on it, right here in the open of the hospital where Glenn could walk by, her sister, and they wouldn't have to worry about none of this anymore–

But she doesn't. Hardly graces him with the cut of her eyes before she's taking hold of the door handle and pushing it open.

She doesn't close the door and Daryl doesn't follow; just stands in the hall with his eyes on where she'd left them, hands clenched into fists as he hears voices rising from inside: Maggie's twang, Glenn plain and northern, Hershel scratchy and without its usual strength but Daryl feels tears in his eyes when he hears it.

He doesn't hear Beth, but he can imagine what she's doing: smiling at her daddy as she hugs him carefully, so carefully, like she touches Daryl sometimes as if he's a wounded animal who will spook. He hears Beth's voice but he doesn't take in the words—just listens to her and closes his eyes and clenches his fists in the hallway.

He'd been the one to identify his dad's body. Merle was gone again and Daryl was lucky he'd seen the hospital's caller ID on his ma's phone before she picked it up. He knew the hospital could mean only two things: Merle'd been arrested and hadn't gone down easy, or their dad was dead. No reason they'd be in the hospital otherwise.

Daryl was right, and he didn't tell his ma where he was going when he left her in the piece of shit apartment they'd been renting. Just reminded her to slide the deadbolts like always, knowing she'd forget to like always, that he'd come home and the door would be cracked half-open on its shitty hinges. Once he'd found a heroine addict rifling through his ma's purse while she slept on the bed two feet away, snoring obliviously to everything that could have happened to her.

Pop'd been gone more and more since they moved out of the trailer—Daryl's insistence. Said it was cause he was sick of spending on gas to get into town, but really it was cause he'd been literal trailer trash long enough and he'd rather there be a wall between himself and his parents than a curtain. Thin walls, yeah, and he still heard everything he'd been not wanting to hear, but it was easier to keep himself down, knowing there were two doors between him and Pop; knew any longer in that trailer and he'd slit his dad's fucking throat.

But Pop wasn't home that often, missing the woods, missing his buds at the bar down the road, pummeling Daryl every time he _did_ come around, blaming him for thinking they could have something more in this life. For being the one to save the money to get them there, with his shifts at a garage in town and the money he kept buried in the woods so ma wouldn't find it and spend it on more booze. It wouldn't even be fancy shit, not in their town; it would just be more, enough that Pop'd be tripping over empties for weeks, enough that when he hit her for leaving shit around she'd barely even feel it. But Daryl saved it, and Daryl moved them, and he was careful not to leave anything out beyond butter knives cause shit was Pop gunning for him now.

He'd been in the woods for two days before the hikers found him; some bougie couple that stayed around to give Daryl their condolences. A coyote'd eaten most of his face, and even though Daryl knew as soon as the phone rang he didn't _know_ , so he asked to see the dead man's hands. And the coroners pulled an arm out from under the sheet and Daryl nodded and walked out of the room. He knew those hands better than he knew his own.

Beth must be holding Hershel's hand, touching him in some way. Ducking under the tubes and stepping over the wiring and slipping herself in to sit at the side of his bed, tuck herself into his side like no time'd passed since she was a little girl doing that on cold nights. Listening to his breathing, asking him things; lord, she'd've been a nosy little shit, wanting answers for everything. Why there was hair poking out of the V of her daddy's shirt and not out of hers. Why you could only feel someone's pulse at certain points in the body, the wrist and the neck and the chest where he'd pull her over to lay her head, listen to the thump-thump till he'd blow in her ear and leave her giggling, pull away and kiss him on the cheek before going to bed.

When Daryl'd been looking at the inside of his dad's eye sockets, Beth was doing that; lying in her daddy's arms, counting heartbeats.

He's so lost in his own head that he doesn't hear the squeak of her shoes till her presence hovers right next to his, and he flinches a little as his eyes shoot open and he sees his ma standing there, normally untamable hair weighed down with oil. He sees a bald spot's been growing behind her ear but he thinks of Beth's fingernails and doesn't mention it.

She stands next to him like they're looking into the room but really they're two people standing in the middle of an empty hallway, a cheery watercolor glowering down at them from the wall. Won some contest in the kids' cancer ward, the plaque below it says. He wonders what they did with the paintings that didn't win. Wonders if this painting's the kid's gravestone too.

“He woke up a few hours ago,” his ma says before clearing her throat, scratchy from disuse. Daryl's hands twitch to drag her to the water fountain a few meters away, but keeps them clenched, his feet planted. He hears the tones of Beth's voice again and he struggles to listen to what his ma's saying. “Maggie wanted the doctors to be sure before calling y'all.”

“He's gonna be ok, then?” Daryl asks, and realizes he could use some water himself.

Eleanor shrugs, staring into nothingness. “Gave him a shit-ton of prescriptions. Told him to exercise, but take it easy.” She barks a laugh. “'Don't drink, either,' they said. They fucking said that, Daryl. To both our faces.”

“It's their job, Ma,” Daryl says.

“Could'a been more considerate. Didn't have to bring it up when I'd been thinking about it...” She trails off and bows her head, presses at her forehead. “Christ I want a drink, Daryl. I want it so bad.”

“Don't always get what you want,” he says.

She snorts, sniffing loudly before looking up at him. He hasn't seen her without makeup since she moved out, and he almost steps back at how haggard she looks; how the skin droops around her shrunken eyes, the wrinkles dripping from them like ant tracks. She looks so close to how she used to that he wonders for a moment whether she did get that drink.

She stares at him a long moment, jaw working like she's chewing cud, before turning back to face forward, sniffing again. He catches the cinnamon on her breath and almost laughs.

“If only they made a gum for that, huh?”

Eleanor looks at him, squinty-eyed, like she thinks he's making fun of her. But he isn't. He doesn't know what he's doing.

“Beth ok?”

And that.

He looks away from his ma, praying his ears don't look as red as they feel.

“She's alive,” he says flatly. “What Maggie wanted me for, right?”

“She's a good girl,” Ma says. “Doesn't deserve what she's gone through.”

“Do we?”

Daryl surprises himself by meaning it. By looking in his ma's eyes and feeling himself shrink in front of her until he's just a skinny kid trying to hide how much pain he's in, hoping he's wrapped the bedsheets thick enough around his torso that he won't bleed through his shirt. Sometimes after his dad beat the shit out of him he'd stumble off to the bar and leave the two of them alone. And Daryl'd untie himself from the post (got damn good at knots doing that) or pick himself off the ground, and once he made sure he wouldn't bleed out sometimes he'd go to his ma where she was lying in bed, snoring with her mouth open or staring at the wall or nursing a drink while the radio played in the background.

She never chased him away, was the thing. Might not be particularly welcoming, depending on her mood, but she always let him in. Didn't protest when he shifted onto the bed next to her, lying on his side instead of his back but listening to the music with her, watching her drink or breathe or drool onto the pillow. They rarely spoke, but one time Daryl asked what they did to make Pop hate them so much. And Ma looked at him for a moment like she wanted to punch him too. But once her face quieted, she answered; in a brief flash of lucidity, she answered.

“He doesn't hate us, darlin'. He loves us. Some men just got different ways of showing it.”

Daryl didn't believe her at the time; left silent and angry, ignoring her calls for him to come back till he was in the woods and could bare his back to the air and lie face down in the bush, shivering as the sun lanced into his ripped skin. He thought about what she said and got angrier and angrier and lived off berries and bark for a few days before coming home to find her exactly where he'd left her. He got some beans and bread together for her and she smiled when he sat down next to her so they could eat side by side.

Now, in the hospital, she's still staring at him and he wishes he never asked the question. It isn't fair to ask her something like that, not now, not after the few days she's had. While he had his fingers buried in Beth's cunt his ma was wandering these halls and staring at the walls and smelling the sterile air and wondering if her life was about to fall apart again.

The thing is, it wouldn't fall apart. Beth would make sure of that. Maggie too, no matter her reticence around Eleanor.

That's what the Greenes do, he thinks, remembering the scar on Beth's wrist, how it felt under his fingertips. They hold things together.

_Do we deserve it?_

“Hershel doesn't think so,” Eleanor whispers. She swallows heavily, and Daryl's about to suggest she get some water when she keeps speaking. “He told me once, first time he told me 'bout his own daddy. Everything's in God's plan, he said. But when He made the Earth He needed somewhere to put all the hurt, and the bad people had so much in them already they were full to bursting. So he found the good ones, some of 'em, and He begged their forgiveness while He pumped all that awful into them. And He knew who was good and who was bad by what they did with what He gave 'em, and the good ones He'd do his best to bring some peace.”

“That's in the Bible?”

Eleanor snorts. “Hell if I know. Never got through the damn thing.” She crosses her arms and hunches in on herself like she's stretching her back, or easing a pain in her stomach. “But Hershel believes it. And if it makes me a good person in his eyes I'll take it.” She's silent for a few moments, and the voices of the Greenes filter from the room and through the air, surrounding them. “I don't know what your daddy was. Used to think he was just a stubborn son of a bitch, got so used to all that mean he had nothing else to give. But you–”

She trails off, looking back up at him as Daryl turns away, hunching his back as he feels her eyes sweep over it. When Daryl glances back at her she's still looking at him, and she waits for his gaze to stop flinching before she continues.

“No good person does that,” she says. “Not to a child. I loved him, but goddamn—if I knew what he was doing I would'a ripped his fucking head off.”

Daryl doesn't say what he's thinking. That there's no way she didn't know, at least in her heart. There's no way, even through the haze of booze and depression, that she didn't notice Daryl limping or the blood on her husband's hands and belt that couldn't have come from hunting game. She knew. She always knew, but she told herself she didn't cause there was nothing she could do about it. She was who she was and there was nothing she could do.

The woman with him—she's who she is now. And maybe if Pop were still alive she'd go back to the farm and take Hershel's shotgun off the wall and blast the bastard's face to kingdom come.

But there's no use shooting a memory. No matter how bad it is.

“I know, Ma,” he says. He looks down at her, through his bangs; looks past her weathered skin and sees the leather hide behind it. Scarred and abraded and burnt, but still there. After all that, still there. “The fuck you doing out here, then?” he asks, jerking his chin towards room 124. “Your man's awake. Might be waiting for you.”

Eleanor puts her hand on Daryl's arm and he jerks like a startled kitten. He doesn't remember the last time she touched him like this, with so much intent. He stares at her and she looks just as startled by her own actions, but she doesn't move away. Just swallows, and moves her hand up and down a few times before letting it fall away.

“There's a man needed me more,” she says. Her lips move against each other like two writhing worms, working what to say. Finally she jerks her own head towards the room. “C'mon with me. He'll wanna see you too.”

Daryl scoffs, but is still too flabbergasted to say anything more; and when his ma walks forward, he follows, shuffling through the door and flattening himself against the wall.

He forgot how kind Hershel's eyes are when he looks at people; sees it now as he looks away from his daughters and towards Eleanor, his face still tinged with grey but with enough blood to flush his cheeks when she leans in to peck him on the lips. He has an oxygen tube in his nose and an IV in his arm, but he looks comfortable, and he looks happy.

Daryl nods at Glenn where he stands against the opposite wall, surprised when the younger man shoots him a smile too. Even Maggie smiles at him from her perch on her daddy's bed, and Beth–

She's sitting on the side of the bed closest to Daryl, turned towards her father as she holds his hand. Her ponytail is pulled over one shoulder, the shoulder closest to him, and he can only see a little of her: eyelashes, the slope of her nose. But she turns too, a little, when she notes his presence in the room; looks at him sidelong, but she looks. He swallows heavily when her gaze meets his—ducks his chin, but forces himself not to look away. And she doesn't either. Not until Maggie says something and she turns towards her sister, replies in softened tones.

“Daryl,” Hershel says.

Daryl's head shoots up to see those kind eyes fixed on him; feels the whole room fixed on him, like he's become the fulcrum of a compass.

“Yeah?” Daryl asks.

Hershel smiles, and Daryl sees him squeeze Beth's hand. Daryl doesn't let himself look at her face again, but he feels her eyes on him like he always does, and even as he shuffles under all the attention he feels something in that gaze work its way down his spine, pull him up straight.

“Thank you for being here, son,” Hershel says. “I appreciate it, and I know your mother does.”

“Ain't nothing,” Daryl mumbles, looking away from all those close bodies.

“It is.”

Daryl meets her gaze full on this time and he doesn't know how everyone in the room doesn't know everything in that moment. The look on her face, the way he must look, fallen naked again before her.

“It is, Daryl,” she says again.

“Alright,” he mumbles. He tears his eyes away from hers to look at Hershel, nods his head. “Glad you're feeling better.”

Hershel chuckles. “Don't know about that. Didn't feel anything when I was sleeping.”

Her thumb strokes across the back of her father's hand, and Daryl remembers that touch—how she held his hand at the kitchen table until they stuck together with sweat, and held on longer. His gaze darts around the room, taking in all those eyes on him, but in the end return to hers. Always return to hers.

She smiles. Just the corner of her mouth, but she smiles.

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “You usually don't.”

 


	32. Let Me Live in a House by the Side of the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hershel is home from the hospital and Daryl's starting to learn a little bit more about what "home" means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this story through its intermittent updates, and quadruple thanks to everyone who writes a review. Please, please take the time to do so. It makes my heart so happy.

Daryl struggles to keep his breathing calm at Hershel's slow progress up the porch steps. Every so often his hand brushes Maggie's where her own rests on her father's back, both their arms slung under Hershel's armpits. It's taken them nearly five minutes to get him from the truck to halfway up the stairs and Daryl feels like he's going to crawl out of his skin at the slow pace. The only thing keeping him together is the feeling of Beth's eyes on his back. Her father's back, probably, since he's the one who can barely walk, but if Daryl were to make any motion of impatience, she would notice. He glances over his shoulder and sees Beth with his mother, Hershel's medicines and flowers from his patients' owners cradled in their arms.

He and Beth haven't spoken since the hospital. He and his mother haven't either, beyond what was needed to get Hershel this far. But he sees them together and he wishes he could get them in a room and just breathe the same air for a bit. Find a quietness. The past few days have been enough of a blur of visitors and doctors and sterile hospital walls that Daryl feels like he could sleep for a week.

But he's here, arm slung around his soon-to-be stepfather, Hershel's labored breathing rattling through the bones of Daryl's forearm where it lies across the older man's ribs. There's sweat on Hershel's forehead—sweat on all their foreheads, but more on his—and his lips are trembling a little.

“Almost there, Dad,” Maggie says for the fourth time, and Daryl has to bite his lip to keep from barking something inappropriate.

“Never knew this porch had so many stairs,” Hershel pants, teetering a little on his feet, steadying himself against Daryl's and Maggie's tightening arms.

“Y'aright?” Daryl asks, the question pulled unwanted out of him. He sees Maggie glance at him from the corner of his eye but ignores it, focuses on not tripping over his own feet and sending them all toppling over.

“Almost there, Dad.”

They finally get Hershel up the stairs and through the front door, depositing him on the living room couch for a time before they attempt the stairs to the second floor. Maggie hurries off to the kitchen to get him some water and Daryl steps back and suddenly he feels Beth's arm brushing his, the bouquet she holds tickling his bicep. He keeps his eyes on Hershel, not on her, stares hard at the man's closed eyes as he catches his breath.

“Do you want the flowers in your room, Daddy? It'll smell nice.”

Hershel snorts, adjusting himself before opening his eyes. “I've been smelling those flowers for long enough. You put them where you like, Bethy.”

Maggie comes out of the kitchen with a tall glass of ice water and presses it into her father's hand. He drinks from it greedily as the three of them look on.

“Daryl,” Beth says, and it's sudden enough that he almost turns to look at her. “There's a vase on top of the kitchen cabinets. Can you help me get it?”

Daryl nods and feels a brief press of Beth's arm against his before she's moving around him and towards the kitchen. He continues to watch Hershel drink for a few moments before following.

His heart nearly stops when he sees her—flowers laid out on the kitchen table, her shoes on the floor and her knees on the counter as she climbs up in her socks, preparing to stand.

“Jesus, girl,” Daryl says, moving forward so quickly that after so many minutes of slowness he almost feels faint, “You trying to kill yourself?”

Beth shoots an annoyed glance over her shoulder even as his hand lands on her elbow, attempting to steady her. “I've done this a million times, Daryl.”

“The fuck you need my help for, then?”

“I don't want to drop the vase when I bring it down.” He looks up and sees what she's going for—sitting indeed on top of the cabinet, a plain glass container that looks barely big enough to hold a fraction of the flowers Hershel'd gotten.

“Gonna break yourself first.”

She looks at him for real now and he realizes too late how close he's stepped; close enough that her spine is brushing against his sternum, the softness of her ass against his belly. His breath catches and he tastes some of hers come with it. They aren't alone but for a moment they feel profoundly alone and Daryl longs for it even as he knows how dangerous this feeling is. Like they're invincible.

“I can take care of myself,” she says.

Her tone isn't aggressive but he still flinches, feels like it's a dig against something, although he can't for the life of him imagine what.

He looks down at the hand on her elbow, nearly lets his eyes flutter shut when she shifts her weight to lean on him more heavily.

“Just be careful,” he mumbles.

She pauses like she's going to say something, but doesn't; shifts away from him and stands on the counter, quite pointedly without his help even as he hovers behind her, looking up at her reaching hands as she brings the vase down.

“Here, you got it?”

He takes it by rote, almost forgetting to step back to give her room to jump down and even then only going back half a step so when she lands there's little more than the vase between them.

He knows he should move. Can hear the others moving around in the living room—his ma, Maggie, Hershel, any of whom would look askance to see them standing this close, let alone what he wants to do. What he wants...

Before he can stop himself his hand is on her elbow again, but this time it's like she's steadying him. She doesn't look away from his eyes but she bears his weight with ease.

“You're gonna say you're sorry?” she asks.

Daryl shrugs, swallows. “Ain't good at that.”

“Doesn't mean you can't learn.”

Daryl stares at her—feels the vase pressing into his sternum, sees it pushing her breasts up in her unremarkable blouse, sleeveless and baring her deceptively strong arms. Wisps of hair fell into her face during her climb and, after glancing towards the living room, he pushes them back using just his knuckles. He misses most of it but brushes her cheek in the process, prompting her eyes to flutter closed. She leans into him, into his hand on her elbow and his knuckles on her face, and when her lips part he feels his heart stop for a moment.

“I wish it were just us again,” she whispers, opening her eyes even as his hand lingers against her cheek. “It won't be for a while.”

“I know.” Daryl swallows. “Your dad'll be alright though. He's a tough motherfucker.”

Beth giggles and Daryl feels his lips twitch in response. “I'll tell him you said that,” Beth says. “Bet he'll get a laugh out of it.”

“S'true,” Daryl says. He puts his thumb on Beth's cheekbone, rubbing it back and forth, enjoying the flush that seems to spread from his touch. “Y'all are tough.”

“Even tough people need people sometimes,” Beth whispers. She leans forward and the vase presses a painful line into Daryl's torso, but he doesn't back up. “I know–, I know we can't do anything. Not now.” The blush has spread to both cheeks now, but Daryl keeps stroking the one. “But still, I... I hope you'll stay. Be around, I mean. You don't even have to do nothing, just... be here.”

“The fuck else am I gonna be?” Daryl asks.

A smile flits across Beth's face and she turns it into his hand—to hide her expression, he thinks, or maybe just to feel more of his skin on hers.

“I dunno,” she says, voice slightly muffled by his wrist. “You must have other friends.”

“I have Ma,” Daryl says. He swallows, pauses long enough that she looks at him in question. He doesn't answer her; drops his gaze to the ground, shuffles his feet.

“Me too,” Beth whispers, pressing into him wherever she can. He looks up at her and sees her eyes shining. “You have me.”

“Thought we were fighting or something.”

“We aren't fighting. I was just... disappointed. But I shouldn't be.”

“Why?” he rumbles.

“Cause you're doing your best. We both are. And if you really care about someone that's enough.”

A memory pops into Daryl's head—lying in bed with his ma in the house before the fire, listening to Pop and his buddies playing poker and getting drunk downstairs. Ma had a whiskey bottle practically glued to her hand—took a swig whenever Will's voice rose above the din—but her other hand was around Daryl, petting his hair, pressing him into her chest so he could smell the strange scent of her: dirty linen and liquor and stale sweat, none of them particularly appealing scents, but together they made something comforting. And he lay there listening to his pop's laughter and his dad's friends' drunken slurs and the beat of his mother's heart and he didn't know how short a time it would last. The innocence that let him lie there and feel safe before he saw that plume of smoke on the horizon.

Eventually Pop came up and kicked Daryl out—even at that young age Daryl felt the compunction not to go, that his ma needed him there, although he didn't yet know why—but until then his ma hummed between sips, stroked his hair, kissed his forehead occasionally with the rasp of the healing scab on her lip.

He never remembers seeing Merle with her like that. Maybe it was a sissy thing of Daryl to do, lie with his ma like they were another family, the sounds of drunken slurs coming from a TV program and not bodies in the living room. He always thought that meant that Merle was stronger than him—didn't need his useless ma's tenderness to know himself a man.

But Daryl didn't need to know he was a man, not back then. That came later. Then it was just him and Ma and what they could give each other.

Was that enough?

“Daryl?” Beth asks. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.” He leans forward and kisses her forehead, inhales deeply. Once Hershel woke up she'd finally found the time to shower, and she smells like her shampoo, a little bit of sweat, that part of her that makes his mouth water and long to wander down her face to her lips.

But there's still movement in the living room, and he pulls away reluctantly, taking the vase from her arms.

“I'll do this,” he says. “Go be with your dad.”

“You sure?” she asks.

“Yeah, 'course,” he says. His mouth quirks under her gaze. “Know how to run a tap well enough.”

Beth smiles back, not bothering to keep it in check, and he nearly flushes under her brilliance.

“Ok,” she says. “Ok, I'll see you out there.” She glances towards the door, then darts forward to press a kiss to his lips—quick and fleeting and far too short but enough to make the hairs on his neck stand on end—and then he's watching her walk away. She doesn't look back at him but he has the feeling she wants to and he has to concentrate to keep his hands from shaking as he sets the vase on the counter, closes his eyes and gives himself a minute to breathe in the air without her.

His lungs fill more easily, but it seems more like liquid than like air.

* * *

“Knew you'd be a natural.”

Daryl looks away from the fence he'd been fixing to find Hershel standing before him, leaning heavily on a cane and breathing a little heavily but in good color, and evidently good spirits; the smile on his face isn't forced as he leans forward to inspect Daryl's work.

“Ain't too hard,” Daryl says, wiping his dripping forehead with a rag. “Merle taught me knots when we were kids. Just gotta know the right ones.”

“Seems like you do,” Hershel says. “Couldn't have done it better myself.”

Daryl ducks his head and concentrates on tucking the rag back into his jeans. It's sweltering outside and he's of half a mind to lead Hershel back to the house, but he has a strange feeling that this whole encounter is some kind of test. Hershel wouldn't have walked this far for nothing.

“Maggie or Ma know you're out here?” Daryl asks.

Hershel's eyes twinkle, and Daryl supposes he's passed. “Since when do I need permission to take a walk on my own property?”

Daryl snorts, lets his eyes wander over the farm. The big barn and the smaller one, the great white house in the middle, the acres of land stretching around them on all sides. A slight breeze rises, ruffles the grass before reaching them and cooling the sweat on Daryl's forehead, almost making him shiver. It's over soon enough, though, leaving the air still and stale as morning breath.

“Anything else you need doing?” Daryl asks. “I'm almost done with this.”

“Should have a cup of lemonade. Bethy made it while you've been out. I guarantee it'll be the best you've ever tasted.”

Another image jumps into Daryl's head involving Beth and the word “taste,” and he scratches his cheek to hide the blush he knows is climbing there. He has to stop this. He went without sex for years; never even thought about it except when Merle tried to talk him into it. Even as a teenager it was never at the forefront of his mind but now he's 35 years old and it's been a week since he had his fingers up Beth's cunt and when he isn't thinking of anything else he's thinking of that.

Especially with the way it's been, practically living on the farm the amount of time he spends here, lying in a guest bedroom on the first floor that he knows is only a flight away from Beth and the bed they spent that morning in, when she touched him...

It's the best thing about being in a bedroom so far from everyone else—he can beat off as much as he likes and as long as he cleans himself up no one will know.

He wonders what someone else would do in this situation; someone like Merle, maybe, although Daryl can't imagine his brother becoming ensnared in another family's affairs so easily, and it makes Daryl's hackles rise to imagine Merle anywhere near Beth in that way.

But he thinks Merle would do something daring; wait till she goes to the bathroom to wash her face and hand her a towel full of his spunk, or ask for her dirty underwear, or sneak into her room at night and get his fingers up her cunt again. It's only the last that Daryl's really considered—although his heart did skip a beat or two when he saw Maggie walking to the washer with the dirty laundry basket—but there's too much risk. It's an old, sturdy house, but Daryl can't trust himself to be quiet enough, not if she gets her hands on him again, not even if he gets his hands on her. And there's no reason for him to be in her room. Absolutely none. Doesn't matter what they're doing if they're caught; doesn’t matter how “cute” his ma seems to think a friendship between them would be. She'd mentioned it once a few days after they got back from the hospital, how good she thinks it is that he's spending time with Beth, getting to know her; how she always wanted a daughter and maybe Merle would have turned out different if he had a sister growing up. It took all that was in Daryl to keep from saying what he thought: that he wouldn't put another woman in Will Dixon's way for the world, especially not a little girl, especially not Beth—but Eleanor didn't see anything of it on his face. Kept prattling away as she arranged flowers for the tenth time and only stopped when Maggie asked if she remembered the sequence of Hershel's medication.

Regardless. Regardless, there'd be no way to explain away a late night visit to Beth's room, especially not one to satisfy Maggie. The woman watches him like a hawk; she'd even had Glenn over once to not-so-subtly get some information about his past out of him. If he started hanging around Beth in any capacity he suspects the elder Greene would have his head on a platter.

But Beth's always there. Doing dishes or making dinner or changing sheets or washing laundry or feeding the damn chickens, she seems everywhere all the time. Wherever he turns she's there, or there's something that reminds him of her, or her scent suddenly blasts his nose and forces him back a step. Beth's given no indication that she's bothered by any of it; seems perfectly content to do her chores and laugh with Eleanor and Maggie and her father and act as if Daryl doesn't even exist. Oh, she acknowledges him, true; asks him to pass the potatoes or how his day's going. But they're never alone together.

Daryl wonders who it is Beth doesn't trust: Daryl or herself. Because he knows for a fact that if they had one moment when interference from the rest of the family seemed unlikely, he'd have her pressed against the wall and his tongue in her mouth before she could blink.

He wonders if she has anything planned for him.

He realizes suddenly that he and Hershel have been standing here silently for several minutes. His ears heat up and he grunts and turns back to the fence as if he'd been working this whole time. He still feels Hershel's eyes on him and now he really is considering sending the old man back to the house, no matter how condescending that would be. He doesn't like the way Hershel's looking at him, like he knows some secret and is trying to figure Daryl out all at once.

Daryl continues working on the fence until Hershel speaks up, and what he says almost brings Daryl to his knees.

“You remind me of Shawn sometimes.”

Daryl fights not to whip around, demand what Hershel means by it, whether it's a way into saying... and there that old shame comes, flaring up like it did at the hospital. He's been fucking around with this man's little girl all while Hershel's looking to call him son. Why he wants that Daryl doesn't know, but he knows Hershel wouldn't be saying this if he thought anything between Beth and Daryl were possible. Not anything that could last.

 _Never would've lasted anyway_ , Daryl thinks, heart pounding as he glances at Hershel over his shoulder, through his hair. _Too old, too fucked up, too close. Way too fucking close._

But again, Hershel doesn't seem to have picked up on his distress. He doesn't seem to be paying much attention to Daryl at all, his eyes fixed on something at Daryl's side, like there's a ghost only he can see.

“What d'you mean?” Daryl manages, then turns back to the fence so his face won't give him away. Got it from his ma, his damned expressive face. Merle could always hide what he was feeling—not from Daryl, but from everyone else—but Daryl'd always been an open book. It didn't take him long to realize that, and even less time to realize how dangerous it could be. He's spent the majority of his life trying to hide what he feels and he isn't confident he's ever succeeded.

Daryl faces the fence and Hershel speaks to his ghost.

“You're nothing like him on the outside, really. Shawn was always joking, playing pranks. During molting season when he and Bethy were kids he had her roll around in feathers in her Sunday dress and show up to church like that. Annette and Maggie and I were already sitting and we saw them coming down the aisle pretty as you please, Shawn grinning to high heaven and Beth all caught up in his fun.” Hershel sighs. “She misses him, Bethy does. She and Maggie were close, but it's Shawn she always wanted to be with. He made her laugh.”

“I don't make no one laugh, sir,” Daryl mutters, yanking hard on a rope he'd already tightened, trying to keep the memories out of his head: bashing her dickhead boyfriend's car, her legs spread as she teases him, standing in her kitchen with that vase pressed between them, giggling, giggling, face brightening through a rivulet of tears—no, he doesn't make anyone laugh. Especially not Beth.

“That's not what I've heard, but that doesn’t matter.” Hershel is silent for a time until Daryl turns around, exactly like the old man probably wanted him to. He's leaning heavily on his cane and his face is pale, but he seems determined to get this out. “What I meant about you and Shawn—when he did something, he did it with all his heart. Same when he loved someone.” Hershel shifts his stance and Daryl tenses up, prepared to leap forward and catch him if he falls. “You don't have to be here. No one asked you to be, I know that.” _Please don't leave again_ plays through Daryl's head but he thrusts it aside, blinks harshly. “But you're here. And I don't care why, if it's for me or your mother or you have nothing better to do. You're here and I appreciate it. I know Beth does.”

Daryl's head snaps up from where it had been drifting downward, locking on Hershel's eyes before he can control himself. “What?”

“Distracts Maggie from ordering her around too much, for one,” Hershel says. His eyes are level beneath his heavy brows, looking at Daryl with far too much intelligence behind them. “And she likes you. I'm her father, I can tell. Ain't no shame in that.”

Daryl swallows heavily. “No, sir.”

“You look after her,” Hershel says. A seriousness creeps into his expression that wasn't there before. “If anything happens to me...”

“She ain't doing that again,” Daryl says. Hershel looks surprised, and Daryl realizes that the old man didn't know that Daryl knew. “Glenn told me,” Daryl says. “I asked her and she ain't doing it again. No matter what.”

“Hmm.” Hershel seems to be considering Daryl differently now, and Daryl feels like he's crawling out of his own skin. “Still. It'll be hard on her. Hard on your mother, of course, but I know you'll take care of her. You always have.”

Daryl snorts, hoping his face is still, hoping. “Ain't never had no choice in that.”

“No, Daryl. It _was_ a choice. And I want you to choose the same for my little girl.”

A thrasher calls out in alarm from somewhere in the fields. Another responds in moments, twittering madly until the world goes quiet again.

Daryl swallows everything that he wants to say—it wasn't a choice, none of it was a _choice_ , he hasn't made a single goddamned choice in his life he wasn't forced into—but the fields are still quiet, and Hershel is still looking at him. He really is looking pale, and the hand on his cane is shaking a little.

“I will,” Daryl says. “I promise.” He clears his throat, glancing back at the fence and rubbing his dirty hands on his jeans. “Should probably wash up for dinner soon.”

Hershel chuckles, and Daryl looks at him questioningly. “Didn't think I'd ever hear you say something like that.” He reaches out and clasps Daryl's arm which Daryl silently allows him to hold as they turn and begin the long walk back towards the house. “We'll make a Greene of you yet.”

Daryl looks at him out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't reply; focuses on keeping his stride steady and even, matching Hershel's hobble.

He doesn't look up until they're nearly at the porch steps and when he does he nearly stops. Beth is there, standing in a blouse and jeans worn at the knees, feet in those damned pink sneakers. But he doesn't notice that till later. What he notices is the soft look on her face, framed by the wisps of hair that have escaped her ponytail. Their eyes meet for a moment, then she looks away, coming down the steps to take her father's other arm. He grumbles good-naturedly about how he can handle his own damn porch; Beth laughs and says something in reply, but Daryl doesn't pay attention to the words.

Because in that short moment when their eyes met, Hershel vanished; everything vanished but the sounds of the thrasher and the two of them coming closer, the imagining of her smile widening as she comes down the steps and meets him in the dust, puts her arms around him and welcomes him home.

As soon as Hershel is up and safe in his armchair Daryl heads right back out the door. Ignores Hershel's calls after him, ignores Beth's silent eyes on his back. Ducks his head and strides back out into the fields. He could climb on his bike; it's sitting there in the drive, helmet hanging off the handle bars, ready to propel him into the wind and away from all of this—from his ma, from Hershel, from Beth, from Beth, from Beth.

But he can't go far. He has to wash up for dinner.

He wanders along the fence, past where he'd been working today, finding other damaged segments that could use some work, half-assessing them for what he can do tomorrow. The rest of him... he doesn't know where the rest of him is. In the sky with the birds or back at the house or maybe some combination of both.

He'll go back. He'll sit with them at their table, eat the brisket and potatoes that Maggie and Beth made, the recipe that Beth's mother wrote down before her death. He'll bow his head and clasp hands and pretend to say grace, even though no one's explained to him how to do it right. He'll sit and he'll eat and he'll listen to the chatter around him, his ma's familiar but strange voice—happy, that's the strangeness, she sounds happy—Maggie's news about Glenn, Beth's high pitched giggles as he avoids looking directly at her. Looks at everyone else instead. The spread of the table. The white walls and the portraits and the two empty chairs sitting in the corner, even after all this time.

He'll go back. He just needs his hands to stop shaking first.

 

 

 


	33. If I Should Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl's used to being around the farm now, but he'll never get used to being around Beth. And he doesn't think he wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reviews (I'll try to answer you this time, I promise!!!), and to Abby for her beta'ing job.
> 
> I hope you enjoy :)

The sun is barely capping the horizon when Daryl pulls up in his truck, sliding in the clutch and turning off the ignition before unbuckling himself and swinging down to the packed dirt below. It may be just past dawn but the farm is already moving; he nods towards Otis's wave and trots up the porch steps, using his key to let himself in.

His ma is in the kitchen when he enters, looking harried as she presides over a full stove of eggs on skillets. He counts enough for the Greenes, for Otis, for her, and one extra that must be for him. He didn't tell her he'd be coming over but it seems that conclusion is foregone at this point.

“Hi, honey,” she says, barely glancing at him as she uses the spatula to poke at each egg, leaving the yolks to wiggle madly. “You're early today.”

“Got work the rest of the day, thought I'd check in.” He watches her eyes dart between the eggs for a few moments before saying, “Ma, I can do that, sit down.”

“I got it,” she says, poking at another yolk.

“You don't gotta check it every minute–“

“I said I got it!” she snaps, glaring at him. They stare at each other for a few moments before she turns back to the eggs, adjusting one of the burners. “Jesus,” she mutters.

“What's going on, Ma?” Daryl asks.

“Nothing,” she says, but he can see the tears building at the corners of her eyes. It's such a familiar sight that nothing in him even twinges. He waits until she bursts out, “I burned them yesterday. All of them, I forgot I was making them and I wasted a whole batch of eggs and it wasn't ready when Hershel came down–”

“Ma,” Daryl says. She shuts up but doesn't look at him. Sniffs in loudly, rubs her nose with the back of her wrist. “He ain't Pop, Ma. He ain't gonna beat you if you don't get his eggs right.”

Eleanor exhales angrily. “That ain't the point,” she mutters. “I gotta do this right. Can't do nothing else.”

“Ma,” Daryl says again, waiting till she looks at him before continuing. “Calm the fuck down.”

“The wedding's in two weeks, Daryl!” Eleanor snaps, turning towards him and wielding the spatula like she's ready to slap him with it. Something in him flinches even still. “If I can't make his eggs who's gonna do it?”

“He's got two daughters and two hands, Ma! I'm pretty damn sure he can do it himself.”

Eleanor glares at him then turns back to the stove. He waits for her to respond, but she's gone to pretending he isn't even in the room. Eventually he exhales sharply and turns to leave the kitchen and head upstairs.

She isn't like this every day but she's like this often enough to get Daryl's hackles up, and he wonders how Hershel's gonna deal with it. Wonders how he's dealt with it this whole damn time, having her hovering over everything, adjusting Hershel's pillows till he has to put her down (gently, of course; he does everything gently and Daryl still doesn't understand how), bringing him water after water and helping him walk even though he got rid of the cane days ago. Maggie's pretty fucking bad too, but at least she's practical about it—doesn't bring no nonsense to it, doesn't get hurt when she isn't needed, doesn't make up for 30 fucking useless years by over-compensating now–

A door opens behind him and he spins around from where he'd been about to knock on Maggie's door and every thought in his brain flees his mind.

Pink. She's pink, everywhere, from the towel she has wrapped around her breasts to the flush on her chest and cheeks from the humidity, a flush that deepens as her wide eyes meet Daryl's and she hugs the towel tighter around herself. She doesn't have anything around her hair and it flows in a cascade down her back, a few strands rising to curl across her collarbones where droplets of water still cling. She holds the towel but it still slips a little and he realizes it's dangerously close to coming untucked.

“Hi,” she says, and he counts the steps from here to her room. Knows the whole house is awake and moving but maybe that would work to their advantage; his ma's still banging around in the kitchen, drowning out any noises they might make when they–

“Hey,” he mutters, keeping his eyes on her face, only on her face, not on her bare little toes or the slipping towel or how easy it would be to pull her those few steps to her bedroom, turn around and lock the door and urge her down to the bed until he can spread the towel like wings around her. He's still never seen her fully naked, he realizes; it's always been over clothes or under them or with some bits hidden and he suddenly wants with an ache like a bruise to have her, have all of her—her pink nipples and her pink pussy and all that pink in between, hidden under that pink towel­–

He's breathing heavily. They both are, he realizes, and while he keeps his eyes on her face hers are roaming everywhere, taking in his shirt with its ripped sleeves and his jeans with its worn knees and his cock rising under his zipper—there's no fucking way to miss that, not when she knows where to look, not when her eyes catch on it and she licks her lips and shuffles a step forward.

It looks almost painful for her to drag her eyes back to his face. Her towel has slipped enough that he can make out the top of an areola and he doesn't look directly at it so she won't notice and fix the towel. He'll take what he can fucking get since that morning in her bed.

“You getting ready for school?” he asks, absurdly asks like he's some relative come to check on her.

“Yeah,” she says, glancing down and pulling the towel up self-consciously. “I didn't think you were coming today.”

Daryl shrugs, tries to keep his shoulders still afterwards. “Aaron's got me later. Got nothing else to do.”

“You never sleep in?”

She's teasing him. She's practically naked with her hair down her back and she's teasing him, the corner of her mouth lifting just a touch, just so he'll notice and remember what it was like to wake up next to her, surrounded by her limbs and the smell of her sex and her sleepy body urging him down, reaching down between her legs–

He must have made some sort of noise for she's staring at him again, big blue eyes taking in his face, the skin stretched tight over his muscles and bones and he tries as hard as he can to swallow his own tongue. Swallow his boner while he's at it—reach down and reel it into his body like a fish on a fishing rod, just to get the damn thing to hide for a while. Hurt him all it wants, but for the love of god make her stop looking at it like she's ready to drop the towel in the middle of the goddamn hallway.

A door opens behind him and he whips around even as Beth springs into motion, brushing past him and vanishing behind her bedroom door before Daryl's head can even stop spinning and let his eyes focus on Maggie standing in her doorway.

She, thank God, is dressed, and distracted enough not to look suspiciously after her sister. She seems to hardly get over the shock of seeing Daryl standing there. From the look of her hair and the bleariness in her eyes, he suspects she just got up.

“Daryl,” she says, his name still sounding unwilling in her mouth, “What are you doing here?”

He's... what is he doing here? He's not here to fuck Beth, he's not here to look at Beth, god please don't let him mention Beth...

He's silent a beat too long before he finally remembers.

“My ma,” he blurts. Maggie raises her eyebrows, prompting him to continue. “She's having a breakdown over the goddamn eggs or something. I thought you could–”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, lemme just brush my teeth first,” she says, as if babysitting his mother has become just another part of her day, just like it'd been part of Daryl's for so long.

“A'right,” he says, stepping aside as she heads across the hall to the bathroom. “Got anything for me to do?”

She stops at the open door, peering back at him like it's a trick question. “Well. I was gonna muck out the stalls today, get some fresh hay down. Daddy usually does it but–”

“I got it,” Daryl says.

“You done it before?” she asks.

Daryl snorts. “I'm used to dealing with shit. Can't be too hard.”

Maggie blinks at him like she can't tell if it's a joke or not. Daryl blinks back, not even sure why he said it.

“Nah, but I got it,” he finally says.

“Alright,” Maggie says skeptically. “Holler if you need help, I guess.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She gives him another weird look before vanishing into the bathroom.

Daryl just manages to keep himself from banging his head against the wall before heading back downstairs and bypassing the kitchen on the way outside.

* * *

Daryl intercepts Otis on his way back out to the fields and has him tell Daryl how to muck out the stalls. Like he thought, it ain't rocket science; the man explains it in a few sentences and Daryl easily waves away his offer for help.

The sun is most definitely up now, but it's still low enough that the shadows are long and whispering and the calm of dawn hasn't yet quite passed. Daryl lets himself spend a few moments watching Otis wade his way through the long grass; watches the man's shadow merge and disappear into that of the strands. Daryl closes his eyes and breathes in. The smell of the farm isn't alien to him anymore; the hayseed and horses that had once made his nose want to run are now as familiar as the interior of his truck or the scent of his own pillow. He thinks he should be scared of that, but he isn't; he thinks that maybe he's used up all his scared, at least on this account. All that's left are the shadows.

He follows them to the barn, pulling on the heavy apron Otis had mentioned and getting to work. There are several empty stalls that he leaves the horses in as he goes through their muck. The work is slow but mindless. He appreciates the burn it leaves in his arms, even the strain in his back, and he wonders how Hershel'd ever kept up with all this work on his own. He had Otis, of course, but once Annette and Shawn were gone and Maggie off to school and all he had was Beth...

Somehow Daryl can't picture Beth doing this, though he knows she must have. He's seen the muscles in her arms, after all; he's fucking felt them, wrapped around him or pulling him down. It's the kind of strength she must have gotten from working the farm, but it's hard to think of her dirty, apron stained with horse shit and hands chafing on the pitchfork even inside the thick gloves. He thinks this is something he'd like to do with her, though. He likes the barn, likes how the light falls through it, likes the scent of horse and how his thoughts can echo through the space without interruption. She wouldn't interrupt them.

He remembers when she'd found him in here, the night after their first time together. Their _real_ first time; not the frantic fumble they'd had when she was still half drunk on cider and he was drunk on her; her in his bed and not just his head, long and slim and soft, so soft he thought his own skin must have felt like sandpaper against hers. He wonders how she can like his hands on her where she's so soft, so sensitive; don't the calluses on his fingers chafe on her clit? Don't his sun-hardened arms rub harshly on her pale skin?

He doesn't know how she stays so pale, living and working on a farm; Merle's got light skin too and he pinks up after fifteen minutes. Daryl remembers the day they'd spent at the beach when Merle was a teenager, a year before he left for the army; how he bitched the whole next week about his sunburn, telling Daryl he weren't some fairy when Daryl offered to rub aloe on the places Merle couldn't reach. He called Daryl a fairy and he bitched and finally Daryl just did it while Merle was passed out drunk and unlikely to wake up any time soon.

Daryl'd never told anyone about that. Ma hadn't liked Merle, even then, and wouldn't want to hear stories about him. And it wasn't like Daryl had any friends he could laugh with without it getting back to Merle. Not like he had any friends he could laugh with at all. Everyone he knew he knew through Merle and if Merle called him a fairy for even offering his friends would do much worse.

He could tell Beth, he thinks as he lays fresh straw out in the final stall, the one deepest into the barn. He'd worked into the shadows as the sun rose but there's still sweat dripping down his arms and back as he stops to lean on the pitchfork, breath a little heavy, think about what Beth might say to that story. She'd laugh, he thinks; about how silly Merle was about the whole thing. Might call Daryl a good brother, even, for trying like that, even though it'd just been to get Merle to stop moaning. But she'd see it as benevolence and he'd let her because there isn't any way he's discovered to get Beth to think less of something she's decided is good.

His head is so full of Beth it hardly surprises him when he hears approaching footsteps and sees her when he turns. She's dressed now—and what a shame, a corner of his mind thinks, imagining her in her towel in the barn's darkening shadows—in a light blue t-shirt and shorts that leave her legs bare and long. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail but he can tell it's still damp and he hopes he'll at least get to feel it before she leaves.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey,” he replies, leaning a little on the pitchfork as he pulls his gloves off, wipes at his sweaty face. When he finishes Beth is still looking at him, a small smile on her face, and he realizes she doesn't have her backpack. “Ain't you gonna be late?”

She shrugs, leans her shoulder against the stall's post, lets her head fall against it as she regards him.

“They know what happened to Daddy, and that he needs help,” she says. “No one really cares when I go in.”

“Thought you liked school,” Daryl says.

“I do.” Beth bites her lip, worrying it with her teeth, watching him. “You ain't mad at me, are you?”

Daryl blinks. “Should I be?”

Beth shrugs, her collarbone pressing against the front of her shirt. She finally looks away from him, at the floor in the space between them. “Just... feel like I've been ignoring you, and I didn't want you to think–”

“You gotta,” Daryl says. She looks up at him, eyebrows scrunched. “If we're here, you gotta. I ain't thick. I know that.”

“I know you aren't thick,” Beth says softly. She pushes herself off the post and walks towards him, slow and steady in her scuffed sneakers, and soon she's standing close enough that if he weren't wearing the thick apron he'd be able to feel her against him. She looks at him through her eyelashes and his heartbeat quickens as he realizes this is as alone as they've been in weeks. “I just... I hate acting like this. I hate it.” She reaches up and takes hold of a string hanging off the fabric of the apron; tugs at it till it comes loose, then rolls it between her fingers. “I hate lying,” she whispers.

Daryl swallows, trying not to breathe too deeply because he knows he'd be able to smell her if he did. “You know we can't tell no one–”

“I don't mean that,” Beth says, looking up at him. “I mean, I guess I do, but I... that's not what I meant. I meant...”

She looks away from him, looks at their surroundings, the clean hay beneath their feet. It makes Daryl look down too; see his large booted feet just inches from her tiny sneakers. He nudges one foot forward until it touches hers, glances up to see her looking at him again. He pushes against her foot. She smiles a little as she pushes back.

“What'd you mean?”

He almost steps back when she places her hands on his apron—it's filthy with dirt and shit and she doesn't need that on her skin—but the feeling of her foot pressing on his toes keeps him in place.

She doesn't press against him when she kisses him. Touches him with just her foot, just her palms, leaning into him as she goes on her tip-toes and presses her mouth to his. It's almost chaste, almost something he could walk away from; but she gasps a little when she pulls away, her breath pooling across his lips and chin as she drops back to her heels, and his heartbeat quickens again even as it all continues to feel so goddamn normal.

She finally seems to notice what exactly she's got her hands against and moves them to his arms, squeezing his biceps as he sways towards her.

“This,” she says, biting her lower lip again. “I meant this.”

Daryl knows what she means. God, he know what she means. Just being with her... maybe it's good he's got the shit apron on. Keeps that part of it away for now, the lust; just leaves him and her in the barn's shadows. Her eyes are darker than those shadows should allow, and he knows his are too, but for a moment he wishes they weren't like that. Misses the days when he wasn't distracted by the arch of her neck or how cool her hands feel on his heated arms.

But those days are gone, at least for now; at least for when their times together are so brief that he can get a hard on just from the cut of her eyes. Her eyes aren't cutting him now, but they are drowning him, and he doesn't think there's really much difference.

He raises his hands and takes hold of her elbows, feels her hands slide against his skin as she adjusts her grip. He leans his forehead against hers and closes his eyes, filters out the smell of shit, smells just the clean hay and horse and her.

“You doing ok?” he asks.

She's quiet for so long that he opens his eyes and pulls back a little to look at her. Her eyes are open too, and fixed on his throat, flickering as he swallows.

“I guess,” she says finally. A mirthless laugh bursts out of her. “It actually helps, this... having to be careful with you. It gives me something else to think about.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says, thinking of his own apartment, how strangely lonely it's felt even after he's spent his whole life longing for his own space. It's better to be here, no matter how hard it is with his ma, with Maggie's judging looks, with Hershel's frailty, with Beth. He doesn't know when it happened but at some point it became easier to be around all these people than to be alone.

He can't look at her with those thoughts in his head so he looks up at the barn's rafters. They's getting brighter and brighter as the sun climbs in the sky and makes its way through the hayloft windows. He and Beth are still in shadow, though. It makes him sad, a little.

“I've never had sex in the barn before.”

That gets Daryl's eyes whipping towards hers, but she isn't even looking at him; is examining the fresh hay he'd put down as if she's actually considering...

But no. When she meets his eyes again hers are dancing with mirth. It reminds him how embarrassed she looked when he caught her in her towel, and the juxtaposition of those expressions makes him smile a little too.

“Could get a blanket out,” Daryl says, looking for a moment at the saddle blankets hanging from hooks on the wall. “From the house. Keep the hay from scratching your ass.”

“I could always sit on _you_ ,” she teases, and the hands on her elbows spasm of their own accord. The images that conjures: riding his face or his dick or just grinding against him, making out like teenagers until he comes in his fucking pants because of course he would. He's glad he's got her a certain distance away because he's not so sure what'd happen if she touched him now.

He clears his throat, watching her grin as he blushes and blushes hard.

“Yeah,” he says, voice deep and scratchy. “Yeah, that'd do it.”

“I'm just teasing,” she says, shaking her head and looking down at their feet again. She looks sad now that the smile is gone from her face, and he feels his pulse pick up.

“Beth?”

She looks up, startled, as if she'd forgotten he was there.

He knows he shouldn't, knows it's dangerous, but with her looking at him like that, fuck danger—he brings one hand off her elbow and presses it against her cheek, marveling as always how he can fit practically her entire skull in his palm. She closes her eyes at the touch, leaning into him and tightening her grip on his elbows. The skin over her face looks tight, and the cords in her neck are trembling. He knows her well enough to know she's trying not to cry.

He strokes his thumb across her cheek and she opens her eyes. They're shining more than they should be and he has to swallow down a pulse of panic that leaps into his throat.

“What?” he asks.

“I just...” A harsh laugh bursts out of her, powerful enough to tickle his face. “God, I feel sick. I feel sick thinking like this.”

“Like what?” he whispers.

“Like I almost wish Daddy... that he hadn't...” Her mouth opens and closes and makes no sound, but he thinks he knows what she's trying to say.

“Hadn't made it?”

She nods, lips pressed tightly together as the tears finally break and run down her face. He catches one on his thumb and watches the other flow over, rippling like twin waterfalls.

“Cause now it's... I'm always gonna wonder, you know. _Is this the last time I'm gonna see him?_ I mean, I thought that sometimes, after Mama and Shawn, but... it's so much closer now. I can't take another funeral but I know I can't avoid it either–”

“Hey, hey,” Daryl says, bringing his other hand up so his palms frame her face, force her to look at him. Daryl swallows, his instincts screaming at him to stop here–

But she's crying.

“You got me, alright,” he says. “You got me. As a... fuck, as a brother, boyfriend, whatever. It don't matter what the fuck we are. You got me.”

Her hands drifted from his elbows to his wrists as he spoke, hanging off them like ornaments from a tree. He wants to look away—wants to look away so badly, wants to pull away from her, wants to take it back, take it back right away before she turns around and hurts him with it–

But her eyes are wide open and unblinking and she rises on her toes to kiss him. Just a peck. A press of mouth to mouth. But it sends a violent shiver coursing through his body and her hands tighten on his wrists as if doing so could hold him together.

He pulls himself away from Beth. Her hands drop to her sides as she watches him untie the apron, pull it over his head and let it crumple to the floor. She doesn't look confused, just expectant; and when he steps forward and pulls her into his chest she melts into him without a word, wrapping her arms around his waist and sighing softly when he presses his cheek against her hair. It's still damp, and sticks to his skin, but not unpleasantly. He breathes in and smells the freshness of her shampoo, wonders how awful he must stink even as he knows she doesn't care.

“We gotta be careful now?” he murmurs, feels her whole body ripple as she guesses his meaning.

“Your mom and Maggie are in the kitchen,” she says, hands beginning to run up and down his back, and he lets his head drop down so his lips skim her ear. “Daddy's in bed. Otis is in the fields. We should be ok.”

“A lot riding on 'should,' girl,” he says, grazing his teeth against the shell of her ear, feeling her shiver.

“You're making it hard for me to care,” she breathes, putting a little of her fingernails into it, making a growl erupt in his chest. There are still tears in her voice, but she's forging past them. “You're dangerous, Daryl Dixon.”

He snorts, knows he'll laugh about it later. He isn't the dangerous one here. She is, with her big eyes and fresh hair, the sweet smell behind her ear as he nuzzles against it. He wants so badly to be in his bed with her again, naked now, to take his time; to talk and touch and not talk and look at her bare collarbones, run his fingers across them and down over her nipples, smile as she shivers. She's shivering now, he realizes; pressing into him in every way, rocking a little and he realizes he's aroused, almost bursting out of his zipper, hard against her soft stomach through his underwear and jeans and her shirt. He sucks in a deep breath, catches more of her scent, rolls it through his mind, and when she pulls back to say something he kisses her.

He's still getting used to it, this kissing business. He never tried to kiss anyone before her. He'd kissed people, yeah, but he never _tried_ ; let them lead the way, responded how he thought they wanted him to. That's what it was; doing what he thought the other person wanted.

But Beth, she wants everything. She's told him as much, and she tells him now; moaning softly, high in her throat, mouth dropping open immediately and letting her tongue tangle with his as one hand stays on his back and the other goes up to his hair, grazes his sweaty temple and he only worries about that for a moment before she tilts her head and forces her tongue past his, presses his to the floor of his mouth so she can explore. His hands span her back—her entire back, she's so small—and when her hand tightens in his hair his veins feel like they're about to burst.

“Daryl,” she whispers; whimpers when his pinky slides beneath the waistband of her shorts, strokes the soft hair in the dimple of her back.

He doesn't respond; doesn't think he has the physical capacity to, not when she's kissing him like this, so intensely he doesn't notice she's been backing him up until his back hits the wall of the stall, sliding from dappled light into shadow. He opens his eyes and sees her as a blur in front of him; too close to make out with any detail but not close enough, never close enough, and when her hand comes down to grasp him boldly through his jeans his hands sink into her, pulling her until her hand barely has room to maneuver, her wrist trapped between their pelvises.

“Beth,” he gasps, dragging himself away from their kiss so he can look at her face. She isn't looking at his crotch. She's looking at him, blue eyes drowned out by shadow and arousal and he knows what she wants just as surely as he knows he isn't ready for it.

But he knows what he wants. And he doesn't think she'll complain.

He spins them faster than she has time to gasp, pushing her up against the stall wall, his feet slipping a little in the hay as he braces himself. She's still kneading at his dick but he draws her hand away, forces himself to ignore the flash of disappointment in her face as he kisses her again, swift and hard, before dropping like a boulder to his knees.

“I wanted to do that,” Beth whispers, one hand sunk in his hair and the other on his shoulder as he fumbles with the button of her shorts. He forces himself to ignore her, concentrates instead on kissing her stomach, her cute little belly button that quivers when he laves his tongue across it. The hay pokes him through the holes in his jeans, but he doesn't mind; especially not when his hands shaking with urgency finally manage to undo her shorts and he yanks them down, bringing her panties with them and there she is—not as easy to see as he would have liked, not in this light, but she's there: her pouting lips, the hair much thicker than it had been the last time he saw her like this, its presence making him feel something heady and overwhelming; like he isn't really so much older than her, that they're just two adults having a fumble in the barn and discovery would mean embarrassment, discomfort, not upheaval and disgust. And he knows they'd be disgusted, no matter how much hair she has or how she struggles to spread her legs within the confines of her shorts, breathes out a soft “ _Yes_ ” when he helps her get one foot out of them so she can stand in a stance wide enough to swallow him.

Her lips are separated now, and even through the thicket of hair he can see her little clit poking out, so swollen and he hasn't even touched it yet. He feels a pressure on his head and looks up to see Beth staring down at him, her small chest heaving, visibly struggling to hold it together.

“This ok?” Daryl asks, putting his hands on the front of her thighs, stroking the insides with his thumbs.

“God, yes,” Beth whispers. He can still see the tear tracks drying on her cheeks but her expression shows none of the anguish of before. He can make her feel good. She knows he can make her feel good and she's ready for it to happen.

Daryl swallows his own small sob as he leans forward and kisses her stomach.

It's just above her bush, and he can feel the hairs tickling his chin as he kisses below her belly button, washing her skin with his tongue, tasting the salty sweat of the beginnings of a hot day. Beth sighs above him, her hand still on his head but not tugging, not guiding; no matter how her legs shake or her chest heaves she leaves the pace to him. To take care of her.

He does know, though, that their time isn't unlimited; that she has to get to school and he has to get to work and anyone could walk in at any moment—although he wonders if that would matter, hidden in the shadows as they are. If someone in the barn would walk on by, oblivious to the pair in the darkest stall, pressed against the wall...

Daryl realizes his breathing has gotten as heavy as hers as he kisses onto her pubic mound, feeling the hair begin to mat under the wet of his mouth. Beth sighs above him, presses on his head a little as he nuzzles against her, licking until she's as wet as she must have been under that towel.

She smells fresh out of the shower. Like the hair on her head she smells sweet down here, like shea butter and honey and her arousal barely veiled, mixing with the mustiness of the barn in a combination that makes his head spin. He holds her legs tighter to keep himself upright and she gasps and he looks up.

He's starting to learn what she looks like when he goes down on her and the result is breathtaking: flushed cheeks and wide eyes and lip red from biting, strands of her ponytail falling around her face as she looks down on him. He meets her eyes and he pauses, loosening his hold on her thighs a little, resting his mouth and chin on her mound as they both breathe heavily, stirring the dusty air.

“Why'd you stop?” Beth asks, voice trembling a little.

He doesn't know. He doesn't know why he stopped, or why he started, or how this started in the first place. One minute she was a teenager and the next a woman and the next a woman in his bed, wrapped around him like a layer of cellophane, breath sweet on his mouth and limbs warm against his. And now they're here. Her family in the house only yards away, her teachers, her friends waiting for her, and she's here with him–

And he's with her. As a brother or a boyfriend or however she'll take him. He decided that long ago.

“You're so beautiful,” he murmurs.

Her eyes shift between his like she doesn't quite believe him, and then a laugh bubbles from her chest, tinged with a sob but a laugh all the same. She smiles down at him, both hands on his head now, settling in his hair like they belong there and he closes his eyes, thinking that he could die here, right now, and it might be ok.

She shuffles against him and he opens his eyes to see she's widened her legs still farther; that the wetness he'd spread across her bush is nothing compared to the slick slathered across the inside of her thighs and even as far as her clit, standing out swollen and pink and shimmering. She shifts against the stall wall and her smell blasts him in the face; his eyes flutter shut as he inhales, pressing himself closer until his face is practically between her legs.

“You missed this, huh?” she asks. Her tone is playful but he knows her well enough by now to know she's still a little shaken—but he'll deal with that later. Right now there's her cunt, the juice of which is mingling in his beard, and he makes a small groan as he uses his fingers to spread her still farther and lap at her clit.

She makes a noise like a stoppered mewl, fingers squeezing and releasing in his hair as he runs his tongue over her gently, again and again, a shiver starting in his legs as he tastes her, feels her changing textures against his tongue—the sliding slick of farther back, the crinkle of her inner folds and the smooth skin of her clit peeking from its hood. He teases that for a moment, using his teeth to gently move her hood back and forth, tongue darting forward to taste the sensitive skin beneath.

“Christ...” Beth whispers, legs spreading still farther and hips canting forward as he keeps exploring—scraping his beard on her inner thighs and feeling the texture of her hair as he works his way backwards, groans again as her flavor explodes on his tongue. He's taking his time and he doesn't know why—knows he shouldn't, knows she needs to get to school, knows they could be discovered any moment—but she deserves this, he thinks. After all she's been through, she deserves it: getting eaten out slow and gentle in her own barn, his fingers dancing around her inner thighs and spreading her slick further down her legs, adding his own saliva to the mix as his mouth waters more and more and he can't help working deeper, nose nudging her clit and lips sealing somewhere near her entrance, and when her hips jerk against his face he holds her tighter, spreading her with his tongue now, working farther and farther until he feels her opening beneath his lips, prods it with his tongue, holds her tight as she shudders.

“Daryl,” she whimpers, and he chances a glance up and almost stops moving. Her head is tossed back so most of his view is the strain of her throat and down, the small mounds of her breasts with her nipples standing out strong and heady through the fabric of her shirt. Her throat convulses as he swirls his tongue and she swallows, and he can see her lips working now too, mouthing silent words as he spreads her further and licks her entrance and sees from the corner of his eye a shimmering drop of liquid separate from the rest and drop into the hay.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, mouth full of her as her hips begin to move more strongly, shoving against his face and he surges forward, pinning her in place and licking from her taint to her clit.

She shouts and he shushes her but the vibrations only make her shout again, legs closing around his head so she's practically riding his shoulders.

It's his lips on her clit again, drenched in her juices and standing free of its hood within his help, that makes her come apart.

He's so close he can see it, can _feel_ it—the way her pussy flutters and then pulses, strongly, as a gasping groan leaps from her mouth and her hands in his hair yank him forward, deeper into her pussy where he licks again and she clenches again, legs squeezing his skull and pussy lips fluttering and one hand leaving his hair to grope in the air, finally coming up against his own hand and holding it tight as the waves take her over.

He knows she's done when her groans drop into one long soft whimper. Her legs tremble as he pulls away to sit back on his heels then pull himself up, knees complaining a little as he stands tall before her, hand still tight in hers.

His legs give some shakes of their own when she opens her eyes—round eyes, blue eyes, heavy-lidded like she's on the edge of sleep—and fix on his face like he's saved her from something. And maybe he has, he thinks, as she brings their joined hands to her chest and her free hand to his face, thumbing at the soaked corner of his mouth until his tongue darts out to tickle her. She shivers, and smiles, and her head drops back as he pushes in to kiss her.

She squeaks a little when his tongue meets hers, but it quickly slides into a moan as he presses his whole body against hers, groaning himself when he realizes how _hard_ he is, hard enough to fuck her right into the wall or into the hay or push her to her hands and knees and rut into her like an animal...

He shudders and pulls away, hips first and then mouth, but her mouth follows—licking around his mouth and into his beard and he realizes it’s her own taste she's chasing.

At last her kitten licks subside and she lets her forehead drop forward to rest against his lips as she struggles to control her breathing. He feels her hand snake down between them, prod between her own legs until she shivers, wipes her fingers off on his jeans.

“I never got this wet before,” she murmurs. “I don't know how you...”

His heart pounds painfully as she pulls back to look at him. Her hair has escaped mostly unscathed but her makeup is a mess; he hardly even noticed she was wearing makeup, only sees it now in the spotty color of her lips and the rouge smeared under her nose. He licks his thumb before wiping the color from her skin, and even when it's gone he continues to touch her; lining her lips with his finger, drifting across their plush surface until her eyes begin to darken again.

“You gotta go,” he says.

“Yeah,” she says. She catches his hand in hers, pausing him mid-swipe and pressing her lips to the pad of his thumb, closing her eyes as she does so. He watches her draw in a few shaky breaths before her eyes flutter back open.

She looks down and her eyes catch on his crotch and he pulls her face back up, saying before she can protest, “You gotta go.”

She stares at him for a few long moments, then nods. She holds onto his shoulders as he leans down to help her back into her shorts, gives her a bandana from his back pocket to rub between her legs so she doesn't have to sit in wet panties all day. She smirks at him when she gives it back and he isn't sure why, but he doesn't have the voice at the moment to ask; just tucks it back into his pocket and zips and buttons her shorts, leaving his knuckles to drift against her mound for a moment before falling away.

“Thank you,” she says.

He's scared of what would come out of his mouth if he tries to say anything back, so he doesn't; kisses her forehead instead, then steps back. It feels strange to leave her space—like a satellite forcing itself from a planet's atmosphere—and from the way her hand follows his arm, she seems to feel the same. But after a few moments she clears her throat, straightening her shirt and tucking some stray hairs behind her ears.

“Guess I'll go now,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“You'll be here when I get home?”

He's silent for a long time, looking at her. How hopeful she looks, but also how content—like his place in her life is certain now. He'll be here when she gets home. He'll be here for her.

“I got work,” he says. “And... I don't know, I need... Ma's just...”

“You don't have to,” Beth says. She smiles softly. “You got your own life.” She puts her hand on his chest. It burns like a brand. “I just like having you around.”

“Why?”

“Well...” She looks down between them, towards the bandana in his pocket, and by the time she looks back at him they're both blushing. Still, though, she steps forward, leaning her chest against his and craning her neck to look in his eyes. “But... you know that ain't all of it, right? You know–”

“I know, Beth.”

He does know. He does.

And as he watches her walk away he finds he isn't all that afraid of it anymore.

 


	34. Am I On My Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron's been bugging Daryl to grab his mom for another heart to heart. Daryl knows it's the right thing to do; doesn't mean he has to be happy doing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, sorry for the delay in posting. This chapter fought me every step of the way but I think I have a better idea where I'm going now. 
> 
> Reviews really do make me write faster <3

Aaron's looking at him. Aaron's been looking at him a damn lot these past few months, ever since his anniversary party.

Since Daryl watched Beth dance with Eric, uncoordinated and dazzling. Since he took her back to his place. Since he swayed with her, and lay her across his bed, and licked into her pussy until she was gasping.

He can still taste her from this morning. Not always. In fits and starts, when his tongue moves a certain way or he swallows especially hard. He'd been careful about washing his face before coming into work, knowing Aaron might not know the smell of pussy but one of the customers might and that is something Daryl does _not_ want to deal with.

He's swished mouthwash around his mouth and eaten a turkey sandwich and he can still taste her, like she's clinging to his gums and the ridges of his teeth and refuses to let go. He's surprised to find he likes that; enjoys the distraction as he works on machines he knows as well as his own two hands, likes thinking that she's there with him even though she's probably learning geometry or some shit. He tries to imagine her in school and as always he fails; her face slips into Molly Ringwald's or Winona Ryder's and they aren't right, none of them, cause Beth ain't something that could be captured on screen. Not completely. And considering he was kicking beer cans along the highway more often than he was in class in high school, he doesn't exactly have the real life experience to add to his imagination.

But the work day is long and his mind has little else to do—at least little else that's pleasant—so he thinks about her. Tries to avoid certain particulars that would make squeezing under the cars even more uncomfortable, but he thinks about her. Thinks about what she told him today, what she's been feeling about her dad. It seemed perfectly natural in the moment; to Daryl, wishing his Pop dead had always been a matter of course until it actually happened and he and Ma were left on their own.

But thinking back on it Daryl realizes what it must have taken for Beth to tell him that; to say she didn't want her dad coming back from the hospital. Cause—it's Hershel. It's _Hershel_ , her daddy, the man she adores and dotes on and loves with her whole heart, even the parts he's broken. And Daryl thinks it must be those parts that love him the fiercest cause there'd be no reason to love him otherwise.

And she wishes sometimes that he hadn't come home.

Daryl glances up from the engine he's working on and sees Aaron's eying him again. Probably wants to manipulate Daryl into giving up details, the fucker. Except he wouldn't—not Aaron, someone who doesn't have a manipulative bone in his body. At least not a malicious one. No, he's probably curious. He's definitely curious, burning with it, when it's been so long and Daryl's barely mentioned her name, mentioned anything about home. About the farm. Wedding. Anything outside this shop.

Daryl wants to talk to him sometimes. Wants to talk to him so fiercely he feels feverish with the words dancing around his throat. But there's so much—so much he's been feeling and thinking and he doesn't think he'd know where to fucking start.

The curve of her nose, maybe. The crinkle at the corners of her eyes when she smiles. How his Ma looks when he sees them together, gazing at Beth like she's everything she's been needing too. The way Beth's skin smells when she's aroused and how it smells after a long day at school and how he doesn't know whether he likes her better with makeup or without but he doesn't think it matters much as long as she's happy about it. How every day he has at least one vivid image of kidnapping her from her sleeping bed, taking her far away from their families and the wedding and anyone who knows their names. And he would—he could—if only for an afternoon. But again. If he begins he doesn't know if he could stop. He'd run till his knees gave out if it meant he got to keep her.

Daryl looks up again and Aaron isn't in his office. He turns and sees the man approaching him, looking at once utterly out of place and completely at home amidst the oil and harsh machinery. He always has that doubleness about him, except when he's with Eric. That's when he looks right.

But he's standing next to Daryl now and Daryl looks away, back to his hands black with grease as they will the engine to life.

“What?” he asks curtly, knowing even as he does that that tone doesn't work on Aaron at the best of times.

It doesn't work on him now. Aaron crosses his arms and leans against a nearby car, looking like he's ready to stand there for days.

Daryl waits, breath caught in his throat. It's the waiting that's worse than anything Aaron could actually say.

“Needed to get out of the office,” Aaron says.

“And you thought being with me was better than going outside?” Daryl asks dryly, looking back to the engine and continuing to work as he talks.

“Yeah,” Aaron says simply. Daryl wishes he wouldn't. “And,” he continues, “I wanted to talk to you. We haven't talked in a while.”

“Don't remember us having cozy chats or nothing.”

“Daryl,” Aaron says. “You're my friend. Your life doesn't end at this garage. I know that.” He taps his foot a few times. “You've been spending time with Beth?”

Nosy fucker. “No,” Daryl says. He doesn't need to look to know Aaron's raising his eyebrows. “I mean, I've been at the farm. Helping out.”

“Hershel's doing alright?”

“Yeah,” Daryl says. He snorts. “Ma's treating him like a fucking baby. Meanwhile the old man could probably run laps around her without breaking a sweat.”

“That's high praise,” Aaron says.

Daryl shrugs, reaching for a different wrench. “He's a tough son of a bitch.”

“That's even higher.”

Daryl squints at Aaron, sees his calm guileless eyes looking back. “There a point to this?”

“Just talking.” Aaron studies his face for a few moments, then sighs, his shoulders dropping. “Come on, Daryl. You haven't been taking extra shifts any more. Every day at the end of your hours you're out of here like a shot. You don't think that makes me curious?”

“I think you should mind your damn business,” Daryl mutters. Aaron doesn't reply for several long moments, and Daryl sighs harshly, throwing his rag down. “The fuck do you want to know?”

“You wanna bring Beth over for dinner any time soon?”

Daryl blinks at Aaron, ready to shoot it down, but... he remembers how it felt to be with her at Aaron and Eric's party. To share her with other people without letting go entirely. And that was before so much happened between them... before he started touching her for real, before Hershel's heart attack and all that came from it, before he practically made the farm his second home... more his home than the apartment, maybe, as far as that was ever a home. Aaron's always been able to read him pretty damn well; Daryl wonders what he'd see between Daryl and Beth now.

So he just grunts, shrugging his shoulders. “I'd have to ask her,” he says.

“Of course,” Aaron say, trying and failing to hide a smile. He ignores Daryl's glare and continues. “How's your mom doing?”

Daryl grunts, turning back to the engine. “She's Ma. What d'you expect?”

“Is she excited for the wedding?”

“Haven't really talked to her about it.” Aaron doesn't say anything in response and Daryl looks back up at him. “What?”

Aaron shrugs. “Maybe you should. Talk about it.” Aaron uncrosses his arms, shoves his hands in his front pockets. “I mean, her fiance almost died. Don't you think that's worth talking about?”

“Talking ain't exactly our strong suit. You know that.”

“Hey, my parents don't even know I'm gay, let alone married.” Aaron is quiet for a few moments, and Daryl has the strangest feeling that he should look away. “I know what not talking does,” he says finally. “This is a second chance, Daryl. For both of you. And you're going through it together. That means something, doesn't it?”

Daryl grunts, turning back to the engine again. But he's thinking. Thinking about how he and Ma never shared much except space, and things—horrible things that they've spent decades trying to forget, but because they stuck together they never quite could. How when he looks at his ma smiling and happy he still sees her curled in on herself on the bed, ruining another set of sheets. And she's going to be married again in two weeks and he doesn't know how she feels about that.

There's no reason he should, given their history. But maybe he should start.

“Daryl?”

Daryl looks up at Aaron, realizes he's been waiting for an answer.

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “Yeah, ok.”

“Good,” Aaron says, smiling warmly. He pushes himself off the car and begins heading back towards the office. “Don't forget about bringing Beth for dinner!” he calls over his shoulder.

“Yeah, alright,” Daryl says, just loud enough for Aaron to hear. But he's already lost in the movement of his hands, working on the engine and putting both Ma and Beth, for a time, firmly from his mind.

* * *

He enters the house to the overwhelming smell of baking bread, so strong that he has to pause at the door before continuing forward. Although he ate his fill at the garage (ham and swiss sandwich, as usual), the scent instantly gets his mouth watering, and he licks his lips as he twists his hand on the doorknob.

Although he's grown more comfortable in this house, he still closes the front door as quietly as he can, advancing with silent feet so he can see whoever's in the kitchen before they see him. It was one of the first things he did, learning which floorboards are squeaky, where the carpet is thin enough that an untoward step would be heard against the wood. He's never told Beth he does this.

Doesn't know why he ever would, but somehow he thinks she should know.

As if just thinking of her can conjure her up, he turns the corner into the kitchen and there she is, her back to him, wrapped in a ridiculous frilly apron that covers her like a dress. She's wearing jeans and socks underneath it as she works at the counter, hair in a neat ponytail at the back of her skull.

She doesn't sense him there, or if she does she isn't showing it, and Daryl takes advantage of that; leans against the doorway, crosses his arms and feels a smile crawl onto his face as she starts to hum, adding words he can't understand from where he is. Her hips sway back and forth to whatever beat she has in her head, and he takes a moment to appreciate her ass before flicking his eyes back up to the arch of her neck, the well between her shoulder blades, her delicate wrists as they dart in and out of sight, almost like she's playing an instrument. He could ask what she's doing; could ask what the fuck she's making bread for when he knows for a fact their pantry is full—he filled it himself.

But he knows she doesn't need a reason to bring something into the world. She wanted bread, so she's making bread, and she's singing while she does it.

He continues through the house, leaving her undisturbed.

* * *

His mother is reading.

He stands at the door of Eleanor and Hershel's room, thunderstruck. He hadn't been surprised to find his ma in bed. It's where he could count on finding her for 30 years, after all; and though the Greene farm gives her space to spread out, since Hershel got back on his feet his ma's been spending more and more time here. Daryl wonders if it's a habit at this point. Even after all the horrible things that have happened to her in her bedrooms, he wonders if she feels safer. He wonders if it's her way of drawing into herself as the wedding inches closer, her way of doubting.

He expected to find her in bed; but not with a _book_.

“The fuck are you doing?” he asks. His ma's frizzy head swivels upwards from where it's bent over the pages. She's lying on her stomach, ankles crossed in the air like he's imagined Beth doing, her bare toenails painted pink.

“The fuck does it look like?” She folds down the corner of the page she's on and swings herself upright with a strained grunt. “Beth gave me a book and I'm reading it. You gonna sue me or something?”

“Something,” Daryl says.

This shouldn't bother him as much as it does. Just because he's only seen her skim tabloids before—the ones with aliens in them, always—doesn't mean having an actual book is a revelation. But the memories slam into him all the same: Merle hoarding library books under the mattress, in the floor, carting Daryl along with him so he'd have help carrying the hardcovers back and forth without his backpack looking suspicious (it was rarely just books in there, after all). Pop didn't care much for reading; it was one of the few things he and Ma agreed on. They both would'a whupped Merle if they found him nose-deep in _Moby Dick_.

And here their ma is, decades later.

 _Guess she is changing_.

“Daryl,” Eleanor says, waving her hand in the air. “You there?”

“Yeah... yeah, sorry,” Daryl says. He shakes himself a little, trying to remember the reason he came up here in the first place. “You feeling alright?”

“Yes,” Ma says slowly. Her frown deepens. “What's this about?”

Daryl fumbles, cursing Aaron and then cursing himself for listening to Aaron.

“Hershel ain't around?”

“Maggie drove him to the hospital,” Ma says. Daryl's eyebrows go up and Ma waves her hand. “A test, you know.

“You didn't wanna go with him?”

“He asked me to stay behind. Actually.”

Ma tilts her head down, her hair hiding her face. Daryl takes a cautious step into the room. When she doesn't say anything, or move, he takes a few more, and soon he's sinking down on the bed beside her, sitting gingerly, something in his mind saying it might not support his weight. It does, though; is sturdier than his own mattress, although he assumes it's much older. He looks at his ma and her head is still tilted away; she starts making the tell-tale noises of sucking on her teeth, like she's looking for her gum. Daryl folds his hands in his lap, looks at their large and scarred expanses, the nails bitten as always to the quick.

It's nice, almost, sitting like this. A different house, a different time, but... it almost brings him back to the house they lived in before the trailer. It was old, but not the way the Greene's house is old; ill-maintained and falling apart and so deep in the woods they didn't have anyone they could call neighbors, not without walking a mile or two.

Daryl doesn't know what his ma was like in the years before he remembers. Maybe she had the energy to take those walks; to put on day clothes and lace up her boots and trek through the woods while her husband was at work, visit the people living there. Maybe she didn't even say hello; just watched their houses, saw them come and go, took a peek into their lives before turning around and walking all the way home again.

Those houses were far but they were all near enough to see the smoke and hear the engines. Daryl didn't know there were so many people in those woods until the house burned down. He remembers in the chaos of that day seeing kids his age—kids he went to school with, who never talked to him because he didn't talk to them and his brother was already getting himself into too much trouble, but here they were living nearby and he never even knew.

Didn't matter anyway. None of their parents gave the Dixons money to rebuild. The trailer they moved to was in a different school district and Daryl never saw them again.

But he thinks back to that conversation he had with Beth in woods. If they had known each other when they were young, if they would have turned out different. And Daryl thinks about those kids and he feels a spike of resentment shoot through him. His ma never spent time with their parents. Never brought him to those other houses, had him meet the kids, do what kids were supposed to do.

Most days were more like this, even when he was young. Sitting on Ma's bed, watching daytime TV with her or old movies or whatever their pirated cable could pick up. When Will was at work Daryl liked that house. He liked that room, at least when his ma was there. And she usually was.

Daryl looks at her and she's still turned away, still sucking on her teeth. He wonders if she's remembering those days too.

He's about to open his mouth when she speaks.

“I never asked you,” she says, her tone struggling to be conversational. “Are you ok with this? Me marrying Hershel?”

Daryl blinks at her. He blinks again. Of all the things to come out of her mouth, that is something he did _not_ expect.

“Why're you asking?” he says slowly. He glances at the open door, almost feeling like it should be closed for this.

Eleanor shrugs, but she's still not letting him see her face. “Figure it's fair of you to weigh in, 's all.”

“All that time I didn't wanna be around here, that wasn't me weighing in?”

“You never said anything.”

Daryl doesn't even remember if that's true or not. He knows that doesn't matter right now.

“I... I think he's good.” Eleanor finally turns her head and looks at him, searches his face. The muscles of his cheek twitch. “He's good, Ma.”

“Yeah, but should I marry him?”

Daryl feels his heartbeat begin to thud in his ears. He didn't come up here for this conversation. Except in some ways he did.

“Ain't that what you've been wanting to do? Ain't that why you're here?”

“It is, but... I...”

She trails off in the way his pop hated, mouth still moving as she completes her thought to herself. He'd ask her to say it to him. Say it if he gotta watch her say it to herself.

Daryl clenches his teeth, forcing down the memories and trying to think of what to say. He hates Aaron for a moment. Aaron knows he ain't good at this shit, and he sent him up here anyway to interpret his ma's lips moving.

His ma is still looking at him like she's waiting for him to finish her thought, and he hates her for that too.

“He been mean to you or something?”

“No,” she says, firmly enough that Daryl knows she's telling the truth. “No, he's been... he's been lovely.” She looks down at her short legs, swings them a little. “But I don't know if this is too much for him.”

“He ain't a fucking flower, Ma.”

“I mean... this ain't the time for a wedding, is it?” she says, ignoring Daryl completely. “Not when he's still getting better. And if I go now when he's good... maybe I oughta leave before I make it bad again.”

“Ma...”

“You still got the apartment, right? I know you've been in the bed, and I wouldn't kick you out.” She smiles, forces a smile. “Like the old days, huh? Just the two of us.”

“You'd just leave?”

The smile freezes on her face, then inverts as she scrutinizes him. “Yeah, I mean... I'd need you to carry my stuff, but you can do that, can't you? Brought it all in.”

“What about Hershel?”

Ma shakes her head, frizzy hair swinging around her face. “What about him?”

Daryl blinks at her, waits for her to roll her eyes and say it's a joke and kick him the fuck out of her room–

But she doesn't. She keeps looking at him, looking more confused by the second.

“Ma, you'd... you wouldn't even tell him why? Just go?”

“He doesn't wanna hear me saying goodbye,” she says, like he's an idiot, like it's obvious. “You don't even like being here, I dunno why you got a problem–“

“I do like it.”

Daryl feels his cheeks flare red and he turns his face towards the doorway, not wanting to see that look on his ma's face, not wanting to... he doesn't know why he said it. It isn't true, is it? Cause yeah, there's Beth, and the land and fresh air ain't bad, and he knows the house now and it isn't as perfect as he thought it was, has its own fractures and cracks, and maybe he's been spending most of his time here...

Absurdly, he wishes Beth were here. She'd know what to say. She'd know why he said it and she'd know what to say.

But he's kidding himself. He does know. And it isn't just blonde and blue eyed and humming in the kitchen.

“It ain't like it was with Pop, Ma, not here, it's... it's how it's supposed to be. Shit happens but it doesn't stick, it... it's a family, you know?”

“We're a family,” Ma says in a small voice. “We always were, Daryl–“

“Where's Merle then, Ma?” Daryl asks, his anger flaring hot. “Could'a took care of him here. Would'a been hard, but you could'a.” The shutters come down over his mother's face, like they always do when they talk about Merle, and it only makes Daryl angrier. “Could'a stopped him from leaving in the first place.”

“The fuck's this coming from?” Eleanor hisses. “You know what happened. That son of a bitch's got too much of your dad's blood in him–“

“Cause you didn't give a shit about him!” Daryl yells. “No one wanted him so he went hard and he _left_. And he don't–“ Daryl chokes, because he heard a creak on the staircase and he knows Beth's listening. “He don't got any more'a Pop's blood than I do. You–, you planning on leaving me too? Like you'd leave Hershel, you'd leave me too?”

“No! I need you–“

“I ain't your husband, Ma!”

The room goes silent save their labored breaths, and Daryl realizes the ridiculousness of this. This conversation they've had so many times in the past few months, what he's been wanting to say for years–

But it always comes back to the same thing. His ma raised him to take care of her, and he can't do that anymore.

Daryl hangs his head, sucks in a breath, and puts an awkward hand over his ma's on the bed. Eleanor jerks in surprise, and Daryl's ready for her to pull away, but she doesn't move. Lets him cover her hand with his like she's used to this kind of touch.

She's used to it with Hershel, maybe. Not with him.

“If you don't... if you don't wanna marry him then you don't have to. You don't,” Daryl says. “But it won't go back to the way it was before. It can't.”

Daryl feels his ma's gaze hot on his face, but he can't look at her. He stares out the open door and knows Beth is listening and he wants to say something to her too.

“I ain't that man anymore, and you ain't who you were either. And that's cause of Hershel, yeah. But it's also cause of you.” He glances at her, sees the confusion still ripe on her face. He squeezes her limp hand, begging her to understand. “You're enough, Ma. You are. You don't gotta... I made it about me and that ain't fair, but you don't gotta pretend like... like it's all perfect now. Not with Hershel, not if... if he loves you. And not like Pop loved you. Like it's supposed to be.” Daryl swallows. His tongue feels too thick for his mouth and he doesn't know why. “So fucking chill out, ok?”

Eleanor works her hand slowly out from under his, and he sighs, looking at his lap. It's gonna be the same thing–

He feels a hesitant fluttering against his knuckles, and he looks. Sees his ma looking too.

They watch together as she settles her hand over his. Just as ugly. Just as scarred. But Daryl's lips start to tremble because she hasn't touched him like this since before the fire.

“I'll try,” she says after a long silence. She squeezes his hand and Daryl's heart stutters. “I'm trying.”

“I know,” Daryl says. “I know, Ma.”

* * *

Beth's back in the kitchen when Daryl goes downstairs, standing at the counter in her ridiculous apron like she never left. But Daryl knows she heard him and Ma. He knows she knows he's behind her, because he doesn't try to hide it—lets his feet fall heavy as he walks towards her and folds her into his arms, his eyes closed against her neck.

She stiffens for a moment, but only a moment; relaxes into him in the next, her arms settling over his where they circle her stomach, her head turned so she can press her cheek to his hair.

“Hey,” she says softly.

He doesn't respond; just pulls her more tightly against him. Tries to breathe evenly, take in her scent and hold it like it deserves to be held.

“You ok?”

“I dunno,” he mumbles, holding her tight. “I dunno.”

“That's ok,” she whispers. He feels her pulling a little against his hold and he releases her immediately; watches as she turns around, looks up at him almost serenely. His hands settle on her hips and he grips a little too hard, but she doesn't seem to mind; takes hold of the front of his shirt and steps forward so her nose slots into the base of his throat. He hears her inhale and his eyes flutter closed.

“I wanna be with you,” he says. “I want–“

“We can't right now,” Beth says into his chest, her lips brushing him like little kisses. “Daddy'll be home soon. And I gotta finish making this for him.”

Daryl nods, forcing his fingers on her hips to loosen. He doesn't step away, though. Lowers his chin to press against the top of her head, feel the tickle of her hair.

“I...” Daryl trails off. Beth lifts her chin a few moments later, bumping his chin, prompting him. “I think I have to see Merle. I gotta see him.”

Beth nods, like she'd been expecting him to say that all along.

“I know where he is,” she says. Her arms slide around his torso to squeeze him, and he sighs, drops his nose into her hair. “I can get the address for you.”

“Thank you,” he whispers.

She squeezes him again, then very consciously steps back. He's confused for a moment until he hears what she must have: the front door opening, two pairs of feet on the hardwood.

He turns just as Maggie and Hershel enter the kitchen. They don't look surprised to see him; Maggie gives him a nod and Hershel a smile as Beth goes to them, hugs her father.

“Everything ok?” Beth asks when she pulls away.

“Clean bill of health,” Hershel says. Daryl can picture Beth's smile at that; wide and easy and splitting her face in two before she rises on her tiptoes and hugs him again.

It's only in his effort to drag his eyes away from Beth— _obvious, too fucking obvious—_ that he notices Maggie's expression. She must feel his gaze on her for she turns and meets his eyes and his heart drops a little at what he sees.

He leaves Beth and Hershel chatting happily as he follows Maggie out the door.

* * *

They stand together on the porch for several long minutes, Maggie hugging herself despite the heat, Daryl looking at her and then the land and then back again. He knows she'd say something if she didn't want him here, so he doesn't worry about that, but...

He wonders if she knows too, what Beth said, how she feels about their dad. They're sisters, aren't they? And not like he and Merle are brothers.

But maybe they are, a little. Maybe a history of violence and pain has left its stain on this relationship too.

He thinks back to his ma. Can practically feel her sitting up on that bed, staring at the wall. Can't return to her book, not now that Daryl's reminded her that she isn't supposed to be reading it. That it'll get her ass beat to kingdom come if Pop finds out. She'll get her ass beat anyway but best not to give him a reason. A reason means he'll hang on for days after. Maybe not hitting her anymore, but talking about how no one under his roof is gonna be _reading_ no goddamn _novels_ , thinking they're better than him just like all the town folk do with their book learning and fancy ass jobs. Don't need to know how to read to live. Any of them get lost in the woods, you think their candy asses're gonna be finding their way back? Think they could live off bark and berries without whining their fucking heads off? They ain't better, _he's_ the better one, and he'll be damned if sons of his grow up soft cause their mama thinks being able to read's some sort of gospel.

Then he'd take them into the woods; Daryl and Merle, and once Merle was gone just Daryl. Pop saved up for months to afford Daryl's first crossbow; made Daryl work for the next one, but Pop bought the first. Daryl could barely lift it in the beginning, but he got stronger; he couldn't walk as quiet as Pop, but he got better; his aim was shit and then it wasn't cause every time he missed meant something bad coming his way, and if he made it... Pop never congratulated him, not like he could. Never said Daryl did a good job; said he would'a gotten a better shot if he'd paid attention to the wind, goddamnit, fucking shit this kid's never gonna learn–

But sometimes Daryl did alright. Sometimes he made the shot and all Pop could do was grumble, and sometimes Pop was in a good mood and he'd grin when Daryl went to retrieve the bolt, tie the rabbit to his belt like Pop taught him. Ruffled his hair a few times and it didn't even hurt; felt good even, made him feel like those Beaver shits he'd see on reruns, all happy and clean and nothing more to worry about than if a girl liked them or not. Marlon Brando, though; fuck, Pop loved Marlon Brando. Had Daryl steal a copy of _On the Waterfront_ from the video store so Pop could get that speech in the car just right, roar at himself with laughter when he got close and that got Daryl grinning too; and Daryl stole more videos and him and Pop'd watch them together, eyes rapt on the TV while Ma slept and Merle was wherever the fuck he was. Sometimes Daryl would try the lines too and for once it didn't matter if he got them wrong—Pop'd laugh and slap him on the shoulder and it hurt but it wasn't meant to so Daryl didn't care; practiced his impressions when Pop was at work to surprise him with them, get that slap and a smile that wasn't mean.

He wonders if Ma had things like that with him. Daryl knows he heard them laughing together; he remembers the harmony they made some mornings in the kitchen, the brilliance on Ma's face looking at her husband, the surprise that he was treating her kindly, the love that got so lost so fast–

“Glenn proposed to me.”

Daryl jumps a little; he'd forgotten Maggie was there. Forgot where he was too.

He catches up fast—sees the lines in Maggie's brow, her empty finger. He wonders why she thinks he should care.

“You said no?”

Maggie doesn't answer him. Slips a lock of hair behind her ear, squints into the sun glaring off Daryl's truck.

“He'd stay in Georgia. He said that. Maybe visit Michigan sometimes but he'd stay. Even said we could live here if I wanted.” Maggie hugs herself tighter and Daryl sees her swallow. “He'd do anything for me,” she says softly.

“So what's the problem?”

She looks at Daryl and now he sees her sister in her. The way her eyes slam into his and don't let go. The way she looks on the edge of tears.

“I need to know Daddy's gonna be ok,” she says.

“The doctor...”

“He's fine. Now. But he won't always be and I need to know...” Maggie breathes out harshly. “I don't want to live here with Glenn. If I'm gonna have a life with him I need a _new_ life. But I can't leave Daddy alone.” Maggie's hands fall to her sides. One reaches for the bannister. “You're a good man, Daryl,” Maggie says. “When you took care of Beth... you didn't have to.”

“That don't mean nothing,” Daryl mutters, shifting on his feet.

“You showed up,” Maggie says. “You keep showing up, and I know... I know enough to know that there are reasons you wouldn't.” Maggie sniffs in, blinks rapidly. “I need you to tell me the truth. If I marry Glenn, is Daddy gonna be ok? Will your mom take care of him?”

Ma back in that bed, ankles crossed like a little girl. Sitting with Daryl like years ain't nothing. Talking about leaving when all she's ever been good at in her goddamn life is standing still.

“She'll do her best,” Daryl says. “And... and I'll do it if that ain't enough.”

Maggie gazes at him sharply. “You've spent all these years looking after your mom, and you'd still do it?”

Daryl shrugs. “What I'm good at, I guess.” He looks at his hands. Thinks of Beth under them, in them, smoothing her fingers across them. Thinks of her sledgehammer eyes. “I ain't going nowhere,” he says.

He can still feel Maggie's eyes on him, trying to wrench out more promises, but he doesn't look at her. Looks across the farm instead; the rolling hills and the lowing of cows, the shadowed barn and the truck Daryl still needs to fix, one squirrel chasing another across the driveway and stirring dirt into the air.

He never expected to end up in a place like this; hell, he never expected to end up anywhere. But maybe it wouldn't be too bad. And if Ma left and didn't marry Hershel after all... Beth...

He pushes that thought away. He doesn't want it, not even the suggestion of possibility. And not only for his ma's sake, for Hershel's—cause in its own twisted way, he doesn't think it'd feel right to be with Beth without being her family too.

It doesn't feel like a turn on. Just comfort. Peace. Smooth skin under his fingers as he traces the scar on her wrist.

“You're a good man, Daryl,” Maggie says.

Daryl snorts. “You already said that.”

“Still. You are. Thank you.”

Daryl doesn't answer; doesn't know if he has an answer to all these Greenes acting like he's worth something. Worth something to them.

_I could'a been a contender._

He leans against the post at the side of the stairs. Maggie keeps her hand on the rail, ring finger twitching. They watch the sun set, lost in their thoughts, until the bread is done and Beth calls them inside.

 


	35. The Killer in Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The approaching wedding is almost like a funeral, the way Daryl's having to get his affairs in order. Going to see his brother doesn't change that feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief racist language, allusions to suicide.
> 
> I wrote a version of this chapter a long time ago when I thought the story was going in another direction, but I'm glad I had the chance to rewrite it. I hope you like it too :)
> 
> Chapter title from "Disarm" by The Civil Wars.

Daryl looks at the piece of the paper, then at the house, then at the piece of paper again.

The paper again holds his eye—a corner ripped from a sheet out of Beth's journal, which she had flipped through rapidly with a blush on her face as if she was worried he would catch a glance. That memory makes him smile. Makes him wonder what's in there about him, cause that's the only reason she wouldn't want him to see it, is if it were about him. He wonders whether she's watered it down in case her family gets hold of it, if the pages contain only a sketch of what's between them—or if it's all there. How it feels when he licks her clit or kisses her neck or just talks to her, maybe; what she's seen of him that she hasn't revealed, that she keeps to herself. It doesn't bother him as much as he thinks it should, the thought that she'd keep knowledge of who he is from him. Makes him feel like she treasures it. Makes him feel like she trusts him to figure it out himself.

After a dinner of Beth's bread and a Stouffer's lasagna, the two of them had crept away while the others digested, retreating to her room up the stairs. They didn't turn on the overhead light; just the lamp by her bed, and Daryl had to force himself into Beth's desk chair to keep him from joining her on the bed. But it didn't stop him from looking, from seeing her blush and furtive looks as she flipped through her journal, the shadows the lamp cast on her long neck, bent over the pages, how beautiful her skin looked in the yellow light. If he hadn't sat down he would have gotten on top of _her_ and that would have defeated everything, wouldn't it've?

But still. She found the address and ripped out the corner of a page and wrote it in her loopy script, putting a smiley face at the end that then as now made Daryl want to smile and cry at the same time. He settled for an impassive expression, then, looking at the paper when Beth handed it to him, listening to how Hershel calls the place every day to hear about Merle, how he's getting on. That turned Daryl's ears red, thinking that a man owing Merle nothing knows more about how he is than Merle's own brother. _Cares_ to know more. Daryl'd barely thought about Merle since that night. There'd been so much else going on, with Beth, with Ma...

And maybe the same goes for Merle as goes for Ma. Maybe Daryl's tired of taking care of him too.

But now Merle's in the hands of a stranger, but it can't be a stranger who lives in _this_ house. Daryl knows what halfway houses look like—has been with Merle to enough of them to sell packets of coke that they were almost a second home at one point. They're in the wrong end of town, derelict, the inmates turning the owners' time and money and patience from maintaining the property. Never any trees or shrubbery; cameras prominent and numerous, populating every corner of the eaves.

Merle was smart about dropping the coke, of course; folded it into newspapers outside the cameras' view, taped it to the inside of sewer grates. The inmates got caught a few times; Merle always knew cause the money'd stop ending up in the trash in neat little Ziplocs. But it was never hard to find more houses, more customers. Not in their neighborhood.

This isn't their neighborhood. Daryl drove past a small park on the way over. Next to the gate was a WWII veterans' memorial; there'd been small fluffy dogs and shiny playground equipment, kids playing. There are sidewalks instead of curbs, even outside the center of town. Mowed lawns on every lot, with trees spaced strategically to keep the shade from the houses or gardens, hedgerows providing privacy from the neighbors. The houses are old, old enough that the front doors are practically in the street, but they all have a fresh coat of paint, little stones lining the short walk to the steps up to the door, doors with glass doubles on the outside. There's money here. Not the kind of money to put Daryl's hackles up, get him the hell out of here and ask Hershel what he's doing putting Merle in a place like this. The kind of money that Daryl'd pass on his way home from school, that would slow his steps. The kind of money that puts candles in the windows in December.

The house at the address Beth gave him is no different from the rest of them. It can't have been painted more than five years ago; a soft cerulean that looks at home amidst the dewy lawn and the flowers lining the front walk and driveway.

Daryl doesn't pull into the driveway. He parks on the street. Watches the house for a few minutes, wonders if he should call Beth and makes sure this is the place before he remembers she's in school. He sees little signs of movement inside; the rustle of a curtain, flickers in gaps between the drapes. But no one comes out and he feels like he'll get the cops called on him if he waits much longer, so with a huff he gathers Beth's note in his fist and swings out of his truck, locking it out of habit.

He hopes there ain't a law about street parking here; he didn't come here planning to pay a ticket for parking in a residential zone. But whether Merle's here or not, he'll make sure it doesn't take long.

He walks up the street and to the front walkway, pausing to take in the smattering of dog toys on the lawn, one of those mini cars children sit in and drive with their feet.

This don't look like a halfway house at _all_.

Before he can talk himself out of approaching he hears a dog begin to bark from inside, and he double-steps his way to the door so he can knock before the dog's owner has a chance to peek through the blinds and see him skulking on their walk. After several seconds he rings the bell too, in case the barks covered the sound of his knock. Waits a moment and rings it again, to be sure.

It seems to have worked; between the dog's barks he hears the fast patter of footsteps, words muffled by the door, and before Daryl has a chance to steel himself he hears a lock turning and the inner door swings open. The person inside peers through the glass at him before unlocking and opening that too.

He didn't fucking expect any of this.

It's a woman, which in itself isn't surprising—most of the halfways he's been to have been run by women—but this one is _young_ ; can't be older than 25. She has olive skin and dark hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, keeping it out of the grasp of the toddler on her hip.

“Yeah?” she says, then before he can answer she scowls and steps to the side, using her leg to push the still-barking dog away from the door. “Come on, Bull, it isn't Abe, alright, back up.” Her words calm the dog enough that it stops barking, it but doesn't retreat; Daryl can see it peeking around the woman's hip, sizing him up with enormous dark brown eyes.

It's a big thing, probably taller than Daryl if it stood on its hind legs, and covered in a thick coat that, although neatly trimmed, can't be comfortable in the summer heat. It's big boned and heavy shouldered, and though he's sure it's a mutt Daryl imagines it must have some mountain dog in it.

“Yeah?” the woman says again, more pointedly, and Daryl wrenches his eyes away from the dog, blushing at the woman's raised eyebrow. The toddler is studying him too, he realizes, and if he didn't still have Beth's slip of paper clenched in his fist he would mutter an apology and bolt right now.

But he remembers her face in the lamplight when he looked up from reading the address for the first time. Remembers what she said.

“ _It's good you're doing this,” she said quietly. “You'll feel better, maybe.”_

“ _'Bout what?”_

“ _This. All of it.”_

“ _Ain't all wrong,” he said, twisting the paper around his fingers. Looking at her. Not looking away from her. “Don't need Merle to feel good about it. About some of it.”_

_Her smile..._

“I'm here for Merle,” he says. He clears his throat. “Merle Dixon.”

For a moment he's sure the woman has no idea what he's talking about and he has the wrong place and it's time to get the fuck out—but then her eyes light with recognition, and she nods, tilting her head towards the inside of the house.

“Yeah, he's here. Merle!” she yells, making Daryl jump. They wait, but no sound emerges. The woman turns to Daryl and shrugs, the toddler in her arms bouncing. “Well, he was breathing when I left him. He's probably in the living room. C'mon in.”

She doesn't wait for Daryl's reply; just turns around and vanishes inside the house, letting the glass door bounce shut behind her.

Daryl doesn't do anything for a few moments; blinks after her, fiddles with the paper in his hand. He wonders if she does this a lot. Escorting conflicted family members into her home. Taking in drug addicts in the first place. And to do it with a kid around...

Taking a deep breath, Daryl opens the glass door and follows.

Four ways open up to him, and he looks between them as he closes and locks the main door, figuring the glass ain't meant to keep people out anyhow. There's a doorway into what looks like a dining room on his right; on his left is a kitchen, and he can hear the woman moving around inside it, speaking to her kid in Spanish as she bangs some pots around. In front of Daryl are stairs beside a long hallway leading deeper into the house.

Blocking him from continuing is Bull, sitting directly in front of Daryl with his head cocked. Daryl offers his hand for the dog to sniff, then ruffles the fur between his ears, looking down the hallway and waiting to hear Merle's boisterous voice, the sound of him crashing into something.

There's nothing.

Daryl sighs, looking down at Bull. The dog has stood up and is pressing its side into Daryl's legs, prompting Daryl to start scratching down his spine. He doesn't have to bend far at all to reach.

“Weren't ever gonna be easy,” he mutters. Bull looks at him, whines, and Daryl smirks. “You get it, huh?”

The dog licks at Daryl's jeans, then turns and begins padding down the hall, his claws clicking on the hardwood. Daryl wonders for a moment if he should take his shoes off, but figures the woman would have told him if she cares.

He wanders down the hall, letting Bull pull ahead of him as he looks at the walls, their decorations. It reminds him of the Greene's house—photos that can be of nothing but family. Most of them are black and white, vintage looking, but there are a few newer ones on glossy paper: two kids sitting together on a sofa, staring at the camera; a selfie of the woman with a red-headed man, sand and the ocean stretching behind them, her toned shoulder leaning into his. There are a few children's drawings too, newspaper clippings that look like obituaries so he doesn't read them, but what really catches his eye is what must be meant to: a gigantic black and white portrait, a wedding portrait, the couple arranged impeccably before a flowery backdrop. A plump woman stands on the arm of a mustachioed man. He isn't making much expression beside a twinkling in his eyes, but she's beaming, young face split across the middle, cheeks nearly hiding her eyes as she gazes into the camera like it's the best day of her life. And he supposes, depending on what came after, it might have been.

His parents never got a wedding portrait. Hardly got a wedding; Will's friend Harlan told Daryl once how his parents rode up to Harlan's house in the middle of the goddamn night, Harley roaring and waking Harlan's old lady. They didn't have kids yet, thank God; he'd'a gotten a right word from Della for cussing like he did when he stumbled outside in only his boxers, asking what the hell Will's done this time, how he ain't covering up for his shit no more, don't got no more money for him, find someone else's goddamn couch to crash on.

Harlan paused at this part of the story; chewed his tobacco as he remembered. Remembered Will sitting there in his leather, arms bare and corded in the flickering porch light, and at his back a woman—a damned fine woman, but don't go telling Della that. Damned young too, but Harlan weren't police and he wasn't about to ask for a license. He doubted she even had one on her; the pack on the back of the bike was bulging, but they didn't carry anything extra. Will'd swung off the bike, helping the woman down as she laughed at her shaky legs. Told Harlan he wanted to marry this woman, marry her right now; that he'd stolen her out right from under her folks' noses and rode across three state borders to get back home. Back to Georgia, back to Harlan, who'd been ordained on the internet for kicks.

And right then, with Della in her bathrobe and tapping her foot, Harlan married them; right there in his driveway by the glow of the porch light that needed replacing. Watched them kiss for about three minutes before Della interrupted and hoped they had a motel room or something to get back to. And Will said sure, he knew a place; and he and Eleanor bundled back up on the Harley and roared away, leaving Harlan and Della blinking at their receding taillights.

Harlan died a few weeks after he told Daryl that story; collision with a semi on the highway, a fireball that blew across three lanes of traffic and incinerated Harlan from the inside out. Harlan had it in his will that Will would help take care of Della and their little girl, but of course Will didn't; sent Merle over to check on them when Merle pissed him off, who then passed it on to Daryl who didn't have nothing better to do nohow.

Daryl didn't much like Della but the kid was alright; barely born and without a daddy already, although not for long if Della had a say about it, not with all the company she took. Daryl spent a lot of afternoons there, holding the baby like the book at the library said to, feeding her and and burping her and changing her diaper while Della smoked in the living room with some man or other. Sometimes when Della's voice got too grating he'd take the baby and go—not far, just to the edge of the woods where a flat enough rock jutted from the earth, taught her things his daddy'd taught him. He wasn't naïve; he knew she was too young to remember any of it. But it made something strange twist in his chest when he pointed at something and she looked, and he told her what kind of mushrooms to eat and how to tell a wolf print from a coyote's, and he never fashioned himself as her father—Harlan'd been alright to Daryl, but still, don't need more daddies in the world—but, her brother maybe. Like he was her big brother like Merle was his, but without all the knocking around. He never saw her after the fire, never thought to go back there, but he thinks about her now and it makes him sad.

He looks at the wedding portrait on the wall until he can tear his eyes away and continue on.

There's another open doorway, and now that he's looking he can see the flickering lights of a television program bouncing into the hallway. The sound is down low and there's no other noise, but then Daryl hears a cough—a cough so familiar it sends shivers down his spine—and he knows he's found what he's looking for.

It's a children's program playing on the TV; something Daryl doesn't recognize, badly drawn with colors that make his eyes ache. He steps into the room and locks eyes with a child sitting on the sofa—a girl, he thinks, propped against the arm and flinging popcorn towards her mouth. She's older than the toddler on the woman's hip, but no older than 10. She doesn't seem surprised to see him; hardly acknowledges he's there after that first look, turning her eyes back to the TV and eating another fistful of popcorn.

And at the other end of the sofa is Daryl's brother.

Merle is looking at the television, but Daryl doesn't think he's watching it. His eyes are glazed over and unfocused, breathing slow, shallow. His chest is almost completely still. The only part of him moving is the hand of the arm propped against the back of the sofa, spinning some kind of brightly colored rubber toy that twists as Merle manipulates it. He's wearing a grey hoodie and grey sweatpants and grey socks and even though his skin doesn't quite looks ashen, it doesn't look natural either.

The dog is sniffing around the girl, tail wagging happily when she feeds it some popcorn. Its snuffles seems to at last catch Merle's attention, for his eyes sharpen; he looks down at the dog, then slowly up at Daryl, eyeballs moving as if through molasses. Daryl thinks that for a few moments Merle doesn't even recognize him.

But then Merle's nostrils flare and he looks at the TV again, twisting his mouth. One animated character is beating the other with a mop.

“Hey,” Daryl says, shoving his hands into his pockets. Merle's nostrils flare again. His grip on the rubber toy has gone white.

“Run along and check on your mama, L'il B,” Merle says.

The girl doesn't hesitate; hops over Bull and pads past Daryl down the hallway.

There's a long silence. Daryl know it's his job to break it, but he can't, not yet. Not ever. Merle's the one who breaks silences. He's the one who makes the room uncomfortable, whose voice rises above the din.

The TV plays, and Merle seems content to not say a word.

After a few more moments, Daryl walks into the room, settling into the spot on the couch that the girl had vacated. The sofa is deeper than he expects and he struggles to get comfortable. When Bull jumps up to join him, lying down between Daryl and Merle, Daryl has to re-situate himself all over again.

“How'd you find me?”

There's something strange about Merle's voice. It's like something in him has been muted, like they're miles apart in a fog—and to reach him, Daryl tells him the truth.

“Beth.”

It gets Merle to look at him, at least, although without the emotion Daryl expects. It's a look. Just a look.

Daryl doesn't think Merle's ever just _looked_ at anyone in his life.

“Gave me the address,” Daryl continues, opening his hand to reveal the crumpled paper. He straightens it out, looking down at the letters again. He snorts. “Some kinda halfway house, huh?”

“You're still doing that then?” Merle asks. Daryl looks at Merle, sees at least some genuine interest. “Hanging round with that kid?”

Daryl frowns. “I told you, she ain't a kid.”

Merle snorts, rolls his eyes. “ _Teenager_ then, jesus christ.” He _hurumphs_ , then looks at Daryl out of the corner of his eyes again, eyebrow raised. “You fucking her?”

_Her cum in his mouth, on his beard. Hand small and hot on his cock, beneath the covers, between their bodies as he leans his forehead against hers. Skin. So much skin he could drown in it, drown in her eyes blown through with black, labored pants climbing higher and higher..._

“Sort of,” Daryl mutters.

Merle snorts again. “Didn't matter to daddy, huh?”

“Hershel doesn't know.”

Merle looks Daryl head on, and Daryl almost has to look away from the uncanniness of his gaze. “Why the fuck you here then?”

“I needed to talk to you.”

“The hell about?”

“The wedding.”

“You and the kid's?”

“Ma and Hershel's, Merle,” Daryl snaps.

“That still happening too, huh?”

Daryl pauses, thinks about choosing his next word carefully. Thinking about how it doesn't matter, that Merle will see through him like he always sees through him, like he always has.

Except when it's important. Except then.

“I don't know,” Daryl says honestly. “I think so. Ma's having second thoughts.”

Merle snorts. “Of course she is. Like I always said, Darylina. Pop was it for old Ma.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Means you only ever get one chance, little brother.” Something in Merle's affect drops, sinking with him into the deep couch. He turns his head back to the TV and the way the light hits him, Daryl sees how sunken his cheeks are, the flesh deep around his eyes, skin sticking like cellophane to his skeleton. It surprises Daryl. Merle's always been lean, no matter that he eats like a dump truck, but now he looks malnourished. Sickly. The characters on the television are singing something and Daryl wants to ask Merle to turn it off but he also wants to hear what he has to say. “Ma took her chance and lost more than a pound of flesh for it, that's for sure.”

“You saying Pop hurt her too much for her to be with anyone else?”

“She _loved_ him too much to be with anyone else.” Merle sniffs, grabs a glass of water off the end table and takes a swig. “Fuckin' ruined herself loving him. Ruined us too.”

“The fuck are you doing here, then?” Daryl asks. “If you think you're outta chances, what's the point of getting sober? Why ain't you out on the street doing what you've always done?”

“Hopin' to get in on the landlady,” Merle says.

“Really,” Daryl says flatly.

“Hell yeah, l'il bro!” Merle says. The exclamation sounds strange in his flattened tone. “You seen the ass on her? Pushed out two kids, bet she's still tight as the day the Lord made her.”

“That's bullshit, Merle. Plenty of girls with... asses like that. You've fucked half of them.”

Merle chuckles, although the sound is humorless. “Damn straight.”

“Merle,” Daryl says. Merle still doesn't look away from the TV, and Daryl reaches across the dog to grip his brother's arm. Merle's reflex is delayed; it takes him a good second to jerk under Daryl's touch, another to look at him.

“Get your damn hand off me,” he growls.

Daryl ignores him. “If you think you used up your chance, why. The fuck. Are you here?”

They glare at each other for several long moments when, suddenly, Merle breaks, looking away. Daryl's hand slackens a little in surprise, then firms up again.

“'S comfortable, alright?” Merle says, voice low and heavy. “Got a mattress more than two inches thick. Air conditioning. Woman's got me on three square meals a day.” He snorts, tries to strengthen his voice. “S'all beaner shit. Feels like I'm in fucking El Paso. Don't think I've ever eaten so much breakfast in my fucking life.”

“But what's next?”

“Next?” Merle says, laughing hollowly. “You think I'm sitting here thinking about what's _next_?”

“What else're you thinking about?”

“Nothin', alright!” Merle snaps. Daryl jerks his hand away out of reflex, away from the fire suddenly burning in Merle's sunken eyes. “I ain't thinking bout _nothing_. Cause there ain't nothing worth thinking about.” Merle looks him up and down, scoffs. “Bet you think 'bout that kid. Gets you through the day, huh? Makes it feel like you got something to look _forward_ to?” Daryl reaches for him again, but Merle jerks away, rattling the water on its table. “Well dabby fucking doo, little brother. You sit there thinking about her all you like. Won't keep her around tomorrow.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Daryl says.

“We'll see.”

Whatever energy Merle gathered for his outburst seems to have fled. He shrinks in on himself, folding in half and then half again until Daryl hardly knows the man he's looking at. Hardly sees his big brother there. Just an old man, tired. Just an old man.

“Merle,” Daryl says. “You can stay with me when you get outta this. You'll stay with me, alright? Spend some time at the farm, come to the wedding if you want. Maybe Beth's got a cousin, huh?” The joke falls flat, like Daryl knew it would. He swallows. “You ain't alone in this, Merle, alright? Ma wants–“

“Ma don't want nothing to do with me,” Merle says. He says it slow, almost... almost sad. “I told you, Daryl. We all got a chance. Ain't no one with the Dixon name's not gonna blow it.” Merle shifts his shoulders and Daryl imagines the bones in them grinding against each other. “Maybe she marries him, alright? Becomes _Missus Greene_. Hell, maybe you marry the kid and you become Missus Greene too. Won't take long 'fore that name's done too. Won't take long at all.”

“You're wrong.”

“You'll see, man. You'll think of me warning you, but it'll be too late. You'll always end up back here, baby brother. Back here with me. Me and all this _nothing_.”

“Merle...“

“Hey.”

Both men jump at the unexpected voice, turning towards the entrance to the living room. The woman is standing there, neither of the kids beside her. Daryl wonders how long she's been listening. She looks sad like she's been listening.

“Yeah?” Daryl asks. His voice cracks.

“It's lunchtime,” she says, and like the words are some kind of bell, Daryl feels the couch shift as Merle stands and the dog jumps down with him. Daryl turns back to his brother, mouth open, waiting to say...

Merle doesn't look at him. He leaves the room.

“I'm sorry, Daryl,” the woman says softly as the dog walks past her. “You have to go.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “Yeah, alright. Sorry. Thanks.”

He doesn't look to either side as she leads him out. Not at the marriage portrait. Not at the entrance to the kitchen, try to get one last look at Merle. Keeps his head down and waits as the woman unlocks the door and pulls it open. Pushes the glass open too. Holds it for Daryl like she's afraid he won't have the strength to.

“It was good of you to come,” she says. “People who end up here don't usually get visitors.”

“I was just...” Daryl trails off, staring at the floor by her feet. He swallows and looks up. He feels his throat tighten at her expression. Pity. It looks like pity. “You'd call, right? If something happens...”

“Hershel gave me your number,” she says. She bites her lip, then says, “He's doing better. I know it doesn't look like it, but he is. Depression is part of the process.”

“A'right.”

She waits, like she expects him to say something else. He can't imagine what it could be.

“You have a safe drive home, Daryl.”

He nods and steps past her, back into sunny, shining street.

* * *

Daryl doesn't linger, but he doesn't hurry either. Slides into his truck. Digs the key out of his pocket, sticks it in the ignition. Turns it, shifts the gear, and drives away past the playground with the kids still playing.

He's five minutes away and just merged onto the highway when he pulls over to the side of the road.

He looks at his white knuckles around the steering wheel, breathing fast and uneven. Every time he gets his breathing under control Merle's apathetic face flashes before his eyes again and he has to squeeze them shut before he vomits.

He fumbles his phone when he reaches for it, almost dropping it beneath the console before he gets it firmly in hand and finds her number. He doesn't have it saved to favorites but he knows exactly where it is in the list. Even though he hasn't called her all that much, he could find it with his eyes closed.

He closes his eyes now, listening to the line ring, ring, ring–

_Hi! You've reached Beth Greene. I really wanna talk to you, so leave your message after the beep, 'kay?_

The sound of her voice, even recorded as it is, makes something stick in his throat, and for a moment he can't speak. Even as the line beeps and the recording begins he can't speak.

“Hey,” he says finally. “Hey, it's me. Daryl. Uh...” He closes his eyes again, flexing his free hand around the wheel. “I saw Merle. Thought you'd wanna know, I guess. I dunno. You're probably busy, and... but... he ain't doing too good. And I'm...” He swallows, thinks about how she feels in his arms, how heavy her slight body is when she presses against him. “I ain't either. Right now. Not really.” He slumps back against the seat, watches the cars pass, breathes into the phone. Lets her know he's still there. “He said... he said you weren't always gonna be around. For me. Tryin' to shake me up, I dunno.” Daryl bites his lip, worries it between his teeth. “And I said that's bullshit, but it isn't, huh? You can't promise me anything.” He blinks slow, cars blurring. “And I ain't asking you to,” he says hurriedly. “Just that... fuck.” Daryl sighs out heavily, looking for the words, the words... “You ain't there right now and I can't even talk. Don't know what I wanna say, don't...” Daryl swallows again. “You're too fucking good for me. You and your dad. Don't know what you're fucking doing with us. We're just pieces of shit, you know? We're all just...” Daryl blinks, blinks hard, tries to squeeze the tears back into his eyes. “I dunno if Merle's gonna be around much longer,” he says. He goes quiet, listening to the silence on the other end of the line. “But I'm here. And I'm glad you are. I guess that's what I wanted to say.” He pauses, chuckles. “Hope Maggie doesn't get ahold of your answering machine, huh?” He sniffs in deep, wipes his eyes with the back of his wrist. “A'right, well. Anyway. I'll see you, huh?”

He hangs up. His cheeks are burning and his face is wet, but he doesn't regret it. Doesn't want to reach through the phone line and pull the words back.

He does want to reach through, though. Reach through and pull her closer. Pull her into his passenger seat and drive with her and listen to her singing softly, hear the smile in her voice. Or the tears. Any of it.

Daryl turns the radio on, turns the key again. Shifts into drive and goes.

 


	36. Close to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl hasn't heard from Beth since he left her his voicemail after seeing Merle at the halfway house. But the day of Maggie's engagement party is here, and with it comes the chance to see Beth in person again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has it seriously been four months since I updated this? It has, hasn't it. Wow. Sorry about that. I think I actually know what's going to happen in the next chapter though, so hopefully the wait won't be as long this time.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this update, and please let me know what you think!!!
> 
> Warning for some semi-graphic descriptions of past abuse.

Daryl hasn't felt uncomfortable pulling up to the farm in a long time, but then again, he's never seen this many people here before either.

A hand-painted sign proclaiming “Congratulations Maggie and Glenn!” stretches high above the proceedings, fluttering in the light breeze that Daryl feels as he parks in the line of cars and swings down from his truck. He pauses to take in the crowd milling about in front of the house. There must be upwards of three dozen people here, most of them people Daryl doesn't know. Likely friends of the family. For all he knows he'll see them again at his ma's wedding.

That makes him want even more badly to turn around and drive away.

But he thinks about Maggie standing on the porch with him, bread baking inside. Sharing her fears. Practically asking him permission to marry her husband.

 _Ma didn't even ask me that_.

Daryl's eyes catch on Maggie in the depths of the crowd. He's never really believed in the term before meeting this family, but she's _glowing_ ; hanging onto an overwhelmed-looking Glenn's arm as she chats with someone who looks like she's named Aunt Mildred or something.

Sighing deeply, Daryl sticks his hands in his pockets and looking around, trying to figure out where he's supposed to go. He wants to see Beth—of course he wants to see Beth, he always wants to see Beth—but he knows he can't make a beeline for her. It would be suspicious. It's all suspicious. He can't even find her from this vantage point.

“Daryl!”

He turns at the sound of his name and has to look around for a few seconds before he notices the girl pushing through the crowd towards him. She looks familiar, but for the life of him he can't figure out how he knows her.

“Daryl,” she says, coming up to him and shooting him a smile from the side of her mouth, balancing a hand on her hip and tossing her curly brown hair over her shoulder. “How you doing, stranger?”

Daryl frowns. He still can't place her.

The girl's smile falters before bouncing back as she laughs. She slaps Daryl on the shoulder and he jumps at the contact.

“Come on. You don't remember me? Diane! From Beth's birthday party.”

And it snaps into him—that day from so long ago, that awkward fucking day when he met Beth's friends; Jimmy and a quiet little blonde and Diane. He remembers a little about her; remembers how annoying her laugh is, how he felt from the moment he met her that Beth's outgrown her by far.

He also remembers Beth mentioning Diane lying for her when Beth spent the night at Daryl's.

Daryl's face warms up and he flicks his eyes towards the party, feeling strangely like Hershel is about to descend on him with a shotgun.

But Diane doesn't know it was him. Beth told him that. Said she told her there was a guy but not a clue as to whom. Something about that makes Daryl angry. Diane must think Beth would go with anyone—doesn't know anything about this guy except that Beth spent the night with him. Probably thinks he fucked her in the back of his truck and gave her back her panties inside out or something.

Beth wasn't with just anybody. She was with _him_. She's still with him. And Diane doesn't know and that makes something inside him squeeze with pain.

“Oh. Yeah,” he says. He wonders briefly if he should shake her hand.

She ducks her chin and blinks up at him, giving him the strangest look, like her stomach is upset. “I'm _so_ glad you made it,” she says. “I keep asking Beth when you're gonna turn up and she always says she has no idea, but I _knew_ you'd be here today. I _knew_ it, like a sixth sense or something, isn't that funny?”

“Maggie invited me–“

“C'mon, they got home-made lemonade and I,” she leans forward conspiratorially, “got a little something something stashed up my skirt. If you know what I mean.”

He doesn't, but he nods, wondering with all that blinking if Diane would notice him scanning the crowd for an escape.

“Maybe after the cake we can go for a drive or something. Eat it together, watch the sunset...”

She trails off, still with that damn blinking, and Daryl isn't quite sure what she wants him to say; is about to make some excuse about going off to say hello to Maggie when colors whirl in the corner of his vision and Beth is there, face a little peaked, her sparkling eyes wide as they catch on Daryl's and hold him tight.

It's only for a moment, though; then she turns to Diane and Daryl sees that Jimmy's come trailing behind her, hands stuffed in his pockets and gaze angled away from Daryl.

“There you are!” Beth says to Diane, sounding a little breathless. “I've been looking all over—you did bring that curried chicken you said you would, right?”

Diane frowns, then laughs nervously, looking at Daryl before turning back to Beth. “A little early for that, don't you think?”

“No, not at all!” Beth says, smiling wide enough Daryl thinks she's gonna crack her jaw. “Go on and get it unpacked. Jimmy'll help you.” She and Diane stare at each other. Beth's smile doesn't drop an inch. “You know how much my daddy loves your cooking.“

“Well... ok,” Diane says, glancing at Jimmy with her mouth twisted like he's a cockroach in a science teacher's classroom. She turns back to Daryl and her mouth straightens out, bursting apart with a laugh. “I'll see you right after that, Daryl. Don't be going nowhere.”

“Ok,” Daryl mumbles, staring into the cloud of her hair so she doesn't see him looking at Beth.

Diane must hear him say something he doesn't, because the next moment she's stepping forward and touching his arm—her hand is sweaty and it lingers a little too long to be comfortable but at least she isn't hitting him again—and he just keeps his eyes in her hair cause otherwise he thinks he'd run for the hills.

“I mean that, now,” Diane says. She's standing close enough that Daryl can smell her cloud of perfume. “Don't you move an _inch_.”

“I'll make sure he doesn't,” Beth says through her teeth. Daryl can't help himself; his eyes dart to Beth. Her voice is hard like it is when she's upset. She's still smiling but none of it reaches her eyes. “They're all waiting for you, Diane.”

“Ok, ok,” Diane says, patting Daryl's arm one last time and finally, finally walking off with Jimmy.

Once they're out of earshot Daryl lets out a sigh of relief and rubs his arm where Diane touched him.

“Girl don't make a lick of sense,” he mutters. Beth doesn't say anything, and he looks at her. She's staring at him—at his hand on his arm—and when she notices him looking her eyes drop to the ground. He takes her in. She's wearing strappy tan sandals with a little heel, her toenails painted like usual. His eyes travel up her legs to the hem of her dress, just above her knees; green and yellow on a field of pink, her skin shimmering in the sun beside it. She's pulled her hair into a plain ponytail high on her head, arching away from her neck where it bends her head towards her shoes, tapping on the grass.

“Hey,” Daryl says. She looks up through her eyelashes. Daryl steps closer, swaying on his feet. “You look nice,” he says softly.

Beth looks for a few seconds like she didn't hear what he said, and he's about to repeat himself when a smile breaks across her face—a real smile, a smile that reaches into his chest and squeezes his heart, gets it pumping, warms his veins on the hot day.

“Thanks,” she says, just as soft. It feels like years since he's seen her, even if it's only been a few days, and he's suddenly flashing back to their time in the barn, and his face heats up more as he remembers: his face pressed into her cunt as she gushed over him, walking around the rest of the day with her smell in his beard like his mouth'd never left her—christ, he wants his mouth on her now. Her skin holds a light sheen of sweat, is pinking a little across her shoulders and he knows it would be heated, sun-warm under his lips, searing his palms as he pushes aside the straps of her dress, kisses along the line of her neck. He swallows thickly and adjusts his stance again, cock dragging against his underwear and he puts his hands in his pockets to disguise the bulge a little.

Not from her. No, he doesn't think he would mind her knowing how he feels, what she does to him just by standing there looking between him and the ground. But there's still a crowd of people at her back and he ain't ready to show them the load in his pants quite yet.

Her fingers are toying with each other, picking at the skin along the cuticles, and Daryl wishes he could step forward to stop her—it reminds him too much of that horrible night in the hospital, the drive home, how little and lost and empty she looked until they slipped into bed together.

He does step closer. He doesn't reach for her, but she stops anyway like his presence is a reminder, dropping her hands to her sides to hold the fabric of her dress.

“You ok?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says, a little surprise in her tone. She looks at him more closely, eyes flicking between his. “Are you?” Before he can answer she's rushing ahead. “I'm sorry I never called you back. I meant to, I really did, I wanted to, but with planning the party and Maggie running all over the place I never had a minute to think–“

“Hey,” he says, and he knows it's dumb but he can't help it—he reaches forward and takes her arm in a light grip, circling the firm muscle, feeling the swell of her breast against the back of his thumb. She breathes in through her nose but doesn't make a move to shake him off and he has no will to retreat either. He moves his thumb, stroking her arm but also her breast, and she's breathing a little faster and he wonders if they're nothing but monumental fools. “It's ok,” he says. “I didn't mind, I didn't think–, I didn't expect you to call me back.”

She frowns, tilting her head. “Then why'd you call me in the first place?”

Daryl shrugs, swiping his thumb across her arm once more before dropping his hand. “Needed to say it,” he says. “Just... just knowing someone'd listen to it, that you'd... I wanted you to know.”

“Know what?” she asks.

He opens his mouth to reply, but closes it quickly and takes a step back when an older man suddenly breaks from the crowd and comes up to Beth, catching her attention. Daryl hopes the man won't talk to him; ducks his head and turns a little like it's coincidence he's standing there.

He doesn't listen to their conversation—imagines the man is one of Beth's uncles, maybe her grandfather. Although by the look of him he isn't much older than Daryl; maybe something like Merle's age, although life's treated him more kindly than it's treated Merle. And why shouldn’t it have? Daryl knows the people Beth knows; knows they aren't drug addicts or dope slingers. They're people. Normal people that Daryl's got no business being with–

A hand closes around Daryl's wrist and he looks up, startled, not even meeting Beth's eyes before she begins pulling him away. He stumbles a little at first, not expecting her to move so fast, and by the time he recovers they've crossed the field away from the party and rounded the corner of the barn to find themselves in its shade.

He stumbles again when Beth comes to a sudden stop, whirling around to face him so quickly that her skirt swings up before fluttering back down against her legs. Her bracelets tinkle too, and he looks down at her hand still wrapped around his wrist–

And he swallows heavily. Because he knows what's hidden beneath those bracelets. And he knows that no matter who that man was or what he knows or what he's done, no one's family is normal. Not really.

“Sorry,” she says quietly, almost like she expects him to reprimand her. “I don't wanna get interrupted again.”

“S'okay–“

He's barely finished the word when she's kissing him. Arms thrown around his neck, straining on tiptoes and chest pressed solidly against his, and Daryl can't stop the helpless sound he whimpers into her mouth as he grabs her waist desperately.

She leans to the side and they both tip, swinging on their feet like the steps of a waltz until Daryl's back slams into the side of the barn, Beth's weight pushing him into the aged wood. He makes a noise again, something deeper, as he wraps his arms more fully around her, pulling her more solidly against him before sliding down until his hands grasp her ass. She whimpers, teeth catching around Daryl's lower lip in a bite that should be painful but that only makes Daryl pull her closer, using his leverage on her ass to grind her against him, encourage her until she's parting her legs and doing it on her own.

“Fuck,” Daryl growls when she finally releases his mouth, bowing her neck to reach his throat, nip along his windpipe and suck at the junction of his neck and shoulder. He keeps his hands on her ass but lets her do the work; drops his head against the barn and stares through slitted eyes at the sky as the feeling of Beth's mouth and body whirl through him like wildfire.

He feels it when she begins to slow down; her weight resting more heavily on his hands, lips lingering and growing more gentle on his skin, ending in skimming passes across his collarbone.

At last she sighs, dropping her cheek against his chest, circling her arms around his waist even as she trusts him to hold most of her weight. She feels so sweet in his palms. It doesn't matter that he's touching her through her dress and underwear; he can feel her stretching and forming against his hands, the soft and giving expanse making the bones in his wrists tremble. Although she seems to be resting he still urges her close; presses his hips lazily up into her, kissing her hairline, skimming a thumb along the curve of her ass.

She hums deep in her throat, squeezing him tight before pushing herself up so their chests are no longer pressed together, turning her face up to his just in time for him to lean forward and kiss the plane beneath her eye.

“Daryl,” she murmurs, a delicious shiver running through her whole body as he squeezes her ass again, kneading his fingers deep and slow. “Oh, I want to go to my room.”

Daryl remembers the last time they were alone in her room together. Beth gasps when his fingers sink into her cheeks and spread, his face falling to her neck to suck and lip. She tastes sun-warmed, sour with sunscreen until he licks it away and it's just her beneath his tongue; her sweat, her sweet taste.

“Me too,” he murmurs into her skin. She twists her hips until her pelvis presses heavily on his cock and he lets out a low moan. “Wanna strip you down, girl. Feel all of you.”

“You haven't yet, have you?” she whispers, fingers threading through his hair and tugging him along the line of her neck. “I want it too... god, Daryl I just wanna...”

She trails off, and part of Daryl wants to ask her to finish her sentence but most of him is invested in pulling those sounds out of her—whimpers and gasps that surge through his body and between his legs until he's an aching mess against her. His hands have made their way beneath her dress, he realizes, but she isn't stopping him; arches into the touch instead, spreading her legs until a grasping finger slides where she wants it, along the damp of her underwear.

She moans low in his ear and he doesn't stop; turns his hand so his index finger can follow the line of her lips, slips between them into the blasting heat tempered only by a layer of cotton. He knows how easy it would be to push that cotton aside; bundle it into the crease of her thigh and work a finger inside her, let her squirm a while, whimpering and begging until he crooks his finger like she showed him and her whole body seizes...

But he becomes aware quite suddenly of the feeling of the sun on his neck, the hum of the party from just around the corner; and he pictures someone wandering over here, anyone, finding them like this...

The noise she makes when he pulls his fingers away causes an actual pain in his chest, but he doesn't let her deter him; plants his hand firmly on the small of her back and straightens up from her neck, pushes his forehead against hers and tries to get his breathing under control.

She struggles restlessly for a few moments, but then gives in; relaxes against him, dress sticking to the sweaty front of his shirt, grabbing one of his biceps for balance as she forces herself to slow down too.

“One day I'm not gonna let you stop,” she whispers, her breath breaking against his mouth. The hand not on his arm is clutching the front of his shirt, pulling the fabric painfully across his shoulder as she twists it in her grasp.

“Maybe when there ain't 50 people waiting for you,” he says.

“They aren't waiting for _me_.” Beth pulls her face away and Daryl opens his eyes. She's just far enough away that he can see her clearly; cheeks pink and blotchy and irises nearly swallowed with black, her neat ponytail from before sticking out in all directions. Daryl smooths his hand against the side of her head, pressing the wayward strands down as Beth's mouth turns up in a sweet smile. “It's Maggie's party. She deserves the attention today.” Beth's smile fades a little and she tilts her head into his palm. “I wanna talk about Merle.”

Daryl freezes, then sighs, looking down between them. Her nipples are hard, pushing against the fabric of her dress like his dick is trying to press through his jeans, and he can't believe how recently it was that he could have seen a sight like this and not cared a bit.

But he cares. Knows how wet she is inside her panties, how easy it would be to pick up where they left off; hoist one of her legs around his hip, maybe, spread her out and use his finger to stretch her more. She's so tiny but he always fits her so well, fills her up until she's squirming with it, and maybe this time she wouldn't find his fingers enough; would push his jeans below his ass and pull his dick through his fly, make him put it where his finger had been. He's starting to hope that someday soon she'll just do it already; push past his protestations and insecurities and just _do_ it. Once he's inside her he'll be fine. He doubts he'll ever want to leave. And he thinks it's ok to want that now.

But he's not strong enough to do it himself. She has to do it for him. She's a thousand times braver than he is.

When he looks back up at her he wonders if some of his thoughts had come through on his face. Her flush is even deeper, pupils darker still, and she's pushing their lower bodies together again like she's about to see it through.

But she doesn't. Takes a shaky breath to gather herself, shuffles back so there are a few inches of space between them. Even on this hot day Daryl feels cold.

“Ain't much to say,” he mumbles, fingers picking at the fabric over her hips.

“What did he say to you?” Beth pushes. She bites her lip, looks between his eyes. “You sounded so upset in your message, I should've–“

“Shut up,” Daryl says. His chest clenches at the shocked hurt on her face, and he backtracks quickly. “No, I don't mean... just... I told you. You didn't need to call back.”

“But I _should have_.” Beth squeezes his arm, their sweaty skin slipping against each other. “You needed me.”

“I always need you.”

He doesn't mean to. Knows it's a mistake as soon as the words leave his mouth and he sees Beth's lips fall open, her eyes widen.

He shouldn't have said it. But he also knows it's true.

“I...” He trails off, gathers his scattered thoughts. “Merle's fucked up,” he says. “I ain't saying I ain't, but... I think he's forgotten there's any other way to be.”

“You think he might hurt himself?” Beth asks softly.

“I think he's been hurting himself for 30 years already. There ain't much left to go after that.”

“Oh, Daryl,” Beth says.

Daryl shrugs. “It's...”

He wants to say it isn't a big deal. Wants to push Merle away and kiss her again, or pull her inside the barn and taste her in the hay. Wants to ask how _she's_ doing instead of being a selfish ass and giving her all his pain and misery without taking hers in return.

But he knows her by now. He thinks he does. She wants him to want her to know him.

“I love him,” Daryl says, voice breaking in the middle. He swallows. He blinks rapidly and Beth's gaze is steady on him. “I love him and Ma and I don't... I don't _want_ to. I don't deserve to, not when I fucked up so bad.”

“What did you fuck up?” Beth whispers.

“Should'a done something. Something more.”

“Like what?”

“I... _something_.” Daryl looks down between them again. The skirt of her pretty dress, his rough jeans; her sandals and his ancient boots. As he watches he sees her take a step forward, and then another; he closes his eyes as the press of her body follows, warm and comfortable and _familiar_ , fuck, they've done enough of this that he knows her like he knows his own bed—and he swallows deep when her arms come around him, drag up and down his back. He knows what she's doing; knows she knows she's doing it too. Reminding him of his scars without touching them directly; reminding him that she _can_ touch them and he won't shy away. That he doesn't want to shy away. That he wants her to know the map of his pain even better than he does.

How could he know it without her help, anyway? Not like he can see it himself. Not like he can reach every one. It's been years since he tried; found himself in a bar bathroom with a mirror over the sink and another on the door, and after a moment's hesitation he picked up the bottom of his shirt, angled himself so he could see the marks at the base of his spine. They aren't too bad down there—relatively—but he still couldn't look for long; heard Merle hollering from behind the door and dropped his shirt and decided not to think about it. Not to care.

She could tell him what they look like. He could take her to his apartment or they could sneak into her room and he could lift his shirt all the way and sit in front of her and listen to her soft voice speak the past back to him; and he could speak too. She'd mention the thick scar across his left shoulder-blade, touch it maybe, and he could tell her—tell her he got it when he'd tried to drag Pop away from Ma when he was too young to know better; how Pop backhanded him so hard he saw stars, vision blurred and confused until he felt a rough length of rope tying his wrists together around the post in the backyard.

He was still reeling from that first hit when Pop began so Daryl passed out pretty quick; came to a few hours later to Merle muttering at him as he hacked at the rope around Daryl's wrists with his pocket knife—what a dumb-ass he was, didn't he know yet that this kinda thing just makes it all worse, worse for all of them, if he just shut up and sat down and let Pop do what he wanted they'd all be better off—and he got Daryl inside and poured one of Ma's shittier vodkas down his back, hand clapped over his mouth as he hollered, used duct tape to fasten a pillow case to Daryl's back, said to redo it himself in a few hours so the fabric wouldn't heal into the wound. Merle was going out, couldn't spend his time taking care of Daryl's ass when there was money to be made—and Daryl didn't understand exactly what Merle meant by that till years later, but it still gave him a shiver of anticipation when his brother said it, and not just cause he was leaving him alone with nothing but a piece of linen strapped to his aching back, Ma who the hell knows where.

He's never seen what that scar looks like, but he knows from touch that it's one of the uglier ones. After that incident he started going to the library, reading up on first aid and stealing things from the closest clinic to squirrel under his mattress—actual gauze, sterile bandages, needle and thread and a few splints. He used most of it on Ma—was too hard to reach his back and do more than pour alcohol across it every few hours and hope to avoid infection, let alone stitch himself up—but when Merle went overseas Daryl was glad he'd taught himself. Merle didn't help much even when he _was_ there, so even with him being gone not much changed; Daryl didn't lose anything he needed to stay alive. Daryl did that himself. Tried to teach Ma too when she was sober enough to listen, which by that point was pretty much never so Daryl did it for her all up until Pop wound up in the morgue without a face.

He doesn't have a story for all of them. For the most part they blend together, anyway; didn't do nothing special to earn them, and Pop was cruel but he wasn't inventive. Never really changed it up until Daryl outgrew the post and Pop had to hit him without the ease of tying him down. Daryl could probably tell more stories about Ma's body, but that ain't his place. Even though Beth would listen. He knows she would. But it isn't his place.

He realizes that it's been several minutes since they last spoke, since they moved. Beth's hands have stilled on his back, hooking into the fabric of his shirt so she can keep her arms around him without straining them. Daryl feels her breath on his cheek, his bowed neck; his head's been dipping further and further towards her shoulder, and when he realizes this he inhales deeply, pressing his mouth to her skin and bringing his own arms around her too, pulling her in tight. She gasps softly and he loosens his hold, worried about her ribs, but she tightens her arms pointedly so he does the same. He knows something of his own strength and he knows he must be hurting her but whenever he tries to draw back she pulls him forward. He follows her lead, loses himself in it a little; stops thinking about what he's doing to her and starts to think about how he feels. She isn't strong enough to really hurt him, but it's a near thing; he feels his muscles grinding against his ribs but doesn't push her away—just closes his eyes tighter, releasing himself into the tips of his nerve endings, soaking in the rhythmic puff of her nostrils on his neck, his clothing tacky against his skin wherever she presses into him.

They're practically stuck together by sweat at this point. He wonders if, if they stand here for long enough, their clothing will suture together like the pillowcase did into his back; if they'll have to rip apart at the seams to pull away.

He startles a little when he feels Beth start to shift. With Beth warm against his front and the sun searing on his neck he'd been fucking dozing off. He follows her lead and pulls away slowly; his mouth quirks when their tops do, indeed, stick together, and she giggles as she takes a tiny step back, putting some air between them.

“Sorry,” she says before he can think to speak. “You felt... hugging you felt really good. I didn't wanna let go.”

“Me neither,” Daryl rumbles. Beth's eyes sparkle as she leans in and rubs the tip of her nose against his before rising on her tiptoes and kissing that same spot. Daryl has to swallow hard not to giggle himself. He knows he doesn't do a great job of schooling his face, though; can feel his grin, alien and almost goofy, as Beth backs far enough away for them to see each other again.

She smiles at him as she always does, sunny and warm, but slowly that smile fades into something like worry. She bites her lip and Daryl feels every muscle that had melted in her arms tighten back up.

“What is it?” he asks.

She looks at him, flickering between his eyes as she steps forward again. Her torso is still leaning back but her bottom half presses into him solidly; his eyelids flutter when his hard cock meets her stomach. She puts her hands on his hips and rubs herself back and forth several times, mouth open a little; he knows she feels it too.

“Daryl–“

Daryl can't believe he has the presence of mind to notice anything beyond the woman in his arms. But he knows the sound of footsteps when he hears them and shoves Beth back almost violently, angling himself so when Maggie appears from around the side of the barn Beth's body is between her older sister and his straining cock.

 


End file.
